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"Tommy, a word."
When Catherine's voice calls him back, Tommy already has his hand on the handle of the door, half a step away from escaping the office for the night.
Even after hours the floor is still loud and busy, lit with the pale glow of monitors and fluorescent ceiling lights. Crime doesn't sleep, and neither does the CCU. Catherine's pointed tone snaps through the room like a gunshot. Tommy briefly considers acting like he didn't hear her anyway, pretend that the noise drowned her out.
He could duck his head, slip out of the door. But he doubts that his moment of hesitation has been lost on Catherine. And even if he manages by some miracle to avoid this conversation tonight, it's going to be a temporary reprieve at best. Catherine would only come and accost him on his morning run again. He might as well get it over with today.
He takes a deep breath and straightens his back before turning around, catching Yeager's sympathetic look as he crosses the floor. Sorry, man, but better you than me, it seems to say.
It's not like Tommy doesn't know what this is going to be about, just like he knew it when he saw Catherine waiting for him outside his apartment block last year. He doesn't need a heads-up from his boss or an alert in his calendar to know what day it is tomorrow. He couldn't forget it even if he tried. There's an awareness he can't shake, something inside him getting progressively more and more tense as the date approaches, like a countdown to a bomb going off.
"Did he get in touch?"
Predictably, Catherine doesn't bother with small talk once she's closed the door to her office behind the two of them. No question about which 'he' she's talking about. Just for a second, Tommy thinks about playing dumb, but fuck it, he wants to get out of here and be done with this conversation as quickly as possible.
"No, he didn't."
"Are you sure?"
"Am I—" What kind of a question is that? His temper flares up, hot and frustrated, in response to the way Catherine is watching him across her desk. Sharp-eyed, like she wants to pry the thoughts from his head. Like she suspects he has no intention of parting with them willingly. "Jesus, yes, I'm sure. You think I wouldn't know?"
"You said you didn't last year," she points out with a raise of an eyebrow.
Right. Heat rises to his cheeks as his irritation gives way to embarrassment. He... did say that. Waking up on that stretcher in the ambulance, Catherine berating him for not telling her that Bubonic had made contact already, Tommy had blatantly lied to her face. It hadn't been the first time he'd kept shit from her when it came to Bubonic, and from the way she's looking at him now, Tommy thinks she knows it too. It's obvious she didn't believe him then, and she might not believe him now.
He makes a point of holding her gaze when he shakes his head. "Look, there's not been as much as a blip from him since Hamish's stupid serial killer party, okay? And believe me, I've been looking."
He's done more than just look.
After IRL, he really thought he had a shot at tracking Bubonic down. The shit he'd pulled last year – the ad putting Tommy's possessions up for sale, the anonymous message on his phone, the bomb, the money, the recordings – all Tommy would have to do was follow the trail, right? Except there had been no fucking trail. It was dead end after dead end after dead end.
Next time, he'd told himself, and even though he wasn't going to tell Catherine, he expected the next time to come around quickly. Three times within 36 hours was an escalation. Bubonic wasn't just going to stop there. But that's exactly what he did. 363 days, and not a sign of him. Not a single string of code, no message, no recording of that beaked mask staring down the camera as he spoke Tommy's name with so much scorn in his tone that it made the hairs at the back of Tommy's neck stand to attention.
"You know that doesn't mean anything, right?" Catherine says. "He's gone quiet before. For all we know, he's planning something big for tomorrow. If it's anything like last year—"
"You don't need to tell me," Tommy snaps before he can stop himself, his hackles rising again. "It's nothing I don't know."
As if Catherine could possibly tell him anything about Bubonic that he isn't aware of. As if she knows Bubonic better than he does.
Her mouth becomes a flat, hard line. "I'm just telling you to be careful, Tommy."
It's a warning, a test dressed up as concern. Catherine's too damn good at that, too damn good at figuring out weaknesses and poking at them, and she's clearly decided that Bubonic is one of his.
Tommy grinds his teeth at the idea and nods. "Sure thing, Sergeant."
*
Be careful.
What is he supposed to do with that?
Like being careful is an option, when for all intents and purposes he's a sitting duck, unable to do anything but wait for Bubonic to strike. The ingenuity of Bubonic's attacks is that it's impossible to predict where he's going to hit or how, which means they're impossible to prepare for. It could be a message or a malfunctioning device, a bomb or a system infiltration. He proved last year that he could cause plenty of damage with something as simple as a photoshopped picture or a fake ad. If Bubonic really wanted to cripple the CCU, he could probably slip past their firewall before they'd even notice, wreck their entire system from within.
The CCU tries to be prepared for it, but judging by the tension hanging in the air that hits Tommy in the face like a bad stench the moment he steps into the office the next morning, they're very much aware that they're not. Tommy'd be worried too, if he believed for a moment that Bubonic would bother going down that route.
That's just the thing, though: he doesn't think that's what Bubonic's after. Not when everything he had done a year ago was precisely targeted. Personal. He hadn't gone after the CCU. He'd gone after Tommy: Tommy's loft, his possessions, his dog. Tommy himself, in the alley outside IRL. Someone he knew Tommy cared for.
Hard not to see the single common denominator.
And it doesn't feel like Bubonic's done.
It's just a gut feeling, one he doesn't share with Catherine or Yeager or anyone in the office. There's another thing, too, something else he has no intention of telling anyone. He doesn't want Bubonic to be done with him. The idea of Bubonic shifting his focus to the CCU leaves Tommy with a hollow sense of letdown. He tells himself that it's because he wants to be the one to bring Bubonic in, and he could almost swallow the lie if he expected to have at least the sliver of a chance of actually outsmarting Bubonic.
When it comes down to it, it's simple: Bubonic made it personal. He doesn't get to just take that back now.
*
Tommy can feel his heart rate pick up every damn time his phone pings with a new message.
He scrambles to reach for it, his stomach tight with anticipation. And then it's just a text from Yeager about a case they've been working last week, or his mobile provider asking him to fill out some dumb survey, or the dog-sitter confirming their schedule and by the way, her rates have gone up.
Frustrated, he flings the phone back down on the desk with too much force and undue resentment. One time, after too many messages from too many people about perfectly reasonable things he doesn't care about even a little right there and then, he throws the phone a little too hard. It slithers across the desk top and over the edge before he can get hold of it, dropping down onto the floor with a thud that has everyone sitting nearby turning their heads towards him.
He gives them a bland, apologetic smile that he suspects looks more like a grimace.
There's no message from Bubonic.
The car ride home is uneventful and ordinary, as much as NYC traffic can ever be described as uneventful and ordinary.
When he unlocks the door to his loft, his hand on the key is shaking. He doesn't know what exactly he expects, but he wouldn't be surprised if he was walking into another disaster zone like last year. But his apartment lies undisturbed, empty and quiet save for Boris rushing towards him with a wagging tail and a warm snout pressing into Tommy's hand.
Tommy crouches down and ruffles Boris's soft fur, and for a moment, his relief is genuine. But the tension that's had him in a stranglehold all day doesn't quite bleed away.
He spends another hour sitting at home, doing whatever he'd do on an ordinary night after work. Check the news. Take a shower. Watch some stupid movie on Netflix, something with terrible dialogues and unrealistic car chases and a love interest who looks a little like Lindy. Half an hour in, he realizes that he can barely focus enough to follow the paper-thin plot or remember who any of the characters are.
"Fuck this," he mutters as he flicks the screen off.
His voice sounds too loud in the lonely silence of his apartment. He wonders if Bubonic can hear him. Imagines that he has the whole place bugged. Cameras too, probably, and he's sitting somewhere in front of a screen, watching Tommy quietly go crazy.
Tommy looks up to the ceiling and shows the middle finger to the imaginary surveillance system.
Then he gets up, grabs his jacket and goes out.
*
IRL is busy, for a Thursday.
Or maybe it's just the normal crowd. The club still turns up on every other top ten list of the nightlife hotspots in Brooklyn. Apparently, neither a tasteless serial killer party that had the actual serial killer in attendance nor a bomb threat while a sociopathic hacker genius held the entire club hostage left as much as a chink in IRL's reputation. If anything, the whole stunt only boosted its popularity.
Tommy hasn't been back since Lindy left. At least that's how he thinks of it, how he frames it in his mind, because connecting it with Lindy is easier to swallow. Truth is, even when Lindy was still around, he was already avoiding IRL. He hasn't stepped a foot inside since the party. Exactly one year now, to the day.
He almost expects an alert on his phone the moment he walks through the door, but it stays conspicuously silent, mocking him.
The beat of the music pulsates through his body as he pushes his way past the crowd on the dance floor towards the bar. Sophia doesn't seem to be on shift, a young blond guy who looks barely old enough to handle alcohol taking her place behind the counter, and Tommy can't say that he isn't glad. As much as he'd have liked to see a friendly face tonight, he's not in the mood to field any personal questions. Where he's been. How he's been doing. Why he's here tonight, getting drunk on a weeknight.
And fuck, he wants to get drunk tonight.
He orders a gin and tonic and downs it too fast, throwing his head back and swallowing without really tasting it, enjoying the way it burns down his throat. Heat prickles under his skin. He takes out his phone and places it on the counter next to his empty glass, staring at the screen and willing it to light up with a notification. It stares back, shiny and black and quiet, taunting him with its silence.
When the bartender hands him a second drink, some of it spills over and splashes onto the screen, bright neon lights reflecting in the drops. Tommy focuses on it until the colors blur before his eyes.
Jesus. What the hell is he doing?
He wipes the phone clean and switches it off. Puts it in his back pocket. Tries to ignore the weight of it, pretending like it's not even there. Takes it out again before he even finishes his drink, impatient and anxious and angry with his lack of self control.
It comes back online, and almost immediately a message pops up. His pulse races, his skin feels too tight, a pressure on his chest that he can't—
[Just checking in. Any news?]
Catherine. Just Catherine.
It takes all his self-control not to fling the phone across the bar. He grinds his teeth and types a reply, slow, fingers slipping on the virtual keyboard, autocorrect fixing his mistakes. [Nothing. Turning in for the night.]
Half of it is a lie, but he doesn't owe his sergeant the truth about his extracurricular activities. Fuck Catherine, and fuck Bubonic. Tommy rests the glass against his forehead, letting the lingering cool seep into his overheated skin, too well aware that he's mad at both of them for all the wrong reasons.
Fuck me, I guess, he thinks wryly, and gestures at the bartender for a refill.
*
He's just finished drink number four, well on the way from pleasantly buzzed to sloppy drunk, when a body shifts into the space next to him that's just been vacated by a redhead with a high-pitched giggle and her handsy date. Tommy doesn't turn around to appraise the new arrival, twirling the empty tumbler in his hand and wondering if he should order one more or if it's time to call it a night.
"What are you having?" a voice says right next to his ear, soft, but close enough to override the noise.
He twists around on his chair too fast. The sudden motion leaves him dizzy, unbalanced. Assaulted by a sense of vertigo, he has to grab the edge of the counter to steady himself. Yeah, definitely time to cut himself off.
When the world has stopped teetering, his eyes find the guy standing next to him.
He's—Young. Cute, in an unremarkable kind of way. Clean-shaven, curly hair, upturned nose. His features almost soft if it wasn't for the mocking quirk of his mouth and the sharpness with which his eyes seem to be measuring Tommy. There's something vaguely familiar about him, but Tommy isn't sure if he's actually seen him before or if it's just his intoxicated mind throwing some kind of déjà vu at him. And even four drinks down, "Haven't we met before?" is not a cliché he's willing to stoop to.
The guy raises an eyebrow, and there seems to be a taunt in that, too. Then Tommy remembers the question he never answered.
Right. His drink.
He lifts his glass. "G&T. But I think I already had a couple too many."
It earns Tommy a quiet huff that could almost be a laugh, and the sardonic sneer softens into a wry smile. "You know what they say. If you want to hold off the hangover, you have to keep drinking."
Tommy chuckles. "Yeah, pretty sure that's a myth."
Those cool blue eyes never leave Tommy's face, the glint in them almost a little too intense, a little too calculating. The kind that says he likes to push, just to see if Tommy will push back.
"But can you really be sure unless you give it a try?" he asks, voice soft, barely more than a murmur.
But Tommy can hear the dare swinging in the low, suggestive tone, and he's never been good at backing down from those. So he shrugs his assent and doesn't protest when the guy flags the bartender and another drink materializes in front of him.
He drinks slower this time, no more chugging it down all at once to chase the buzz. It's too late to enjoy the zesty flavor, his taste buds thoroughly numbed and his senses woozy, but he can still savor the way the guy sitting next to him looks taking a gulp from the beer he ordered for himself. His mouth closing around the neck of the bottle. The long line of his throat working when he swallows. The way his eyes flutter closed for a few seconds before they're back on Tommy, gaze as piercing as before.
The feverish light-headedness Tommy feels isn't just the alcohol. It's easy enough to imagine ramping up the flirtation a few degrees, to press a little closer. Find out how the guy will react if Tommy does decide to push back, whether his eyes lose their keen intensity when they cloud over with arousal.
He lets himself be distracted by the idea, and for a moment it works and it's enough to get lost in his head. But before he knows, his gaze is drawn back to his phone despite himself, unconsciously checking the screen for new messages.
Tommy shakes his head. Yeah, no. This isn't going to work. Another night, literally any other night, he'd give this a try, see where it goes. Not today.
He sets down the glass and pockets the phone. "Look, man, I— Sorry, it's a bad time." He tries for a rueful smile to cushion the brush-off. "I'm not good company tonight. There's— Someone stood me up, and I just—"
His voice trails off. There's no good way to end this sentence. No good way of putting any of what's going on with him into words that make sense to someone who doesn't know him or Bubonic or their history.
"I see," the guy says. Slow, measured, a little caustic. Not at all like the bland, politely sympathetic acceptance Tommy would've expected in response to his blatant 'it's not you, it's me' apology. "Let me guess. You made plans for your date, and this—Guy? Girl? Now they've ruined them for you."
Tommy frowns. "Not exactly." It's a nice thought, though. The idea that he's so pissed off only because Bubonic being a no-show ruined his plans. That he had plans for how to deal with whatever Bubonic had in store for him to begin with, beyond going with the flow and trying to keep his head above water. It would mean he's a little more cool-headed about it, a little less hopelessly ill-prepared than he actually is.
"No big plans," he admits. "Turns out I just hate being ignored more than I thought."
The words tumble out before he can stop them. Before he really considers them, what they mean. Too honest to share with a stranger. Too honest to admit to himself, almost. He wants to take them back, wants to forget them, unlearn this thing about himself that he doesn't know how to deal with.
He didn't think that the blue-eyed stare he's being fixed with could grow any sharper, but it does. There's no response, seconds ticking by uncomfortably slow, the unnaturally quiet bubble among the music and the noise becoming so thick that Tommy wants to fill it with words, wants to explain himself, if he knew how to.
In the end, it's not him who breaks the silence.
"Well, who doesn't?" his companion says, soft and sure, an undercurrent of amusement in his tone.
It sounds like he's giving Tommy an out, if Tommy – still reeling with the awareness of how inappropriate his reaction to Bubonic's radio silence is – could take it, rather than turning it into a rope to hang himself with.
"No, actually, it's really stupid. I should—" He should be relieved. Every day Bubonic doesn't show up to mess with him is a good day. Especially today. He should be dreading that message, not anticipating it. Not being angry when it doesn't come. "I should be glad."
"But you're not."
It's not a question. But there's something different in the way he looks at Tommy, something curious and speculative and a little wary, a frown-line on his forehead that Tommy didn't see before. Jesus. The poor guy thought he'd buy someone a drink, flirt a little, and instead he gets Tommy coming apart at the seams because he can't deal with not being targeted by CyberCrime's most wanted. It's a miracle he hasn't run for the hills already.
"But I'm not," Tommy confirms wryly. He reaches for his glass and finishes it. He's been rude enough already. "Thanks for the drink, man."
He pushes himself up from his seat. His legs feel like rubber and the ground sways a little. Almost immediately, there's a hand clamping down on his arm, fingers digging in a little too harshly. It's the painful tightness of the grip that grounds Tommy and makes him pull himself together more than the attempt to steady him. When he looks up, he realizes he's right in the guy's space. They're standing too close, and the cold blue of those eyes flays Tommy open.
"Another time, maybe," Tommy says. And before he can talk himself out of it, he lets himself lean in those last few inches and presses his mouth against that lopsided not-quite-smile.
He isn't sure what it's meant to be. An apology, maybe. Some kind of acknowledgement. A promise that, if there is a next time, he'll keep his head in the game.
The hand holding on to his arm tenses further, and he's sure he'll wind up with finger-shaped bruises tomorrow.
Tommy keeps the kiss brief and chaste, just a firm press of lips against lips. When he pulls away, though, there's a flush on the guy's cheeks that wasn't there before. He wets his lips, like he's chasing the taste of the kiss.
"Maybe," he echoes quietly, and the way he looks at Tommy—
If Tommy doesn't leave now, he knows he isn't going to.
*
He pukes his guts out bent over a toilet in the men's room.
Everything feels a little weird, a little off, not quite real. Above him, the lights flicker. In the stall next to him, a couple is having sex. On the dark tile floor, there's powder residue that he's pretty sure would have the guys from Narcotics celebrate Christmas early. It's a good thing that right now, he is as off-duty as he'll ever be and doesn't feel the need to do a damn thing about whatever illicit stuff is happening around him.
He rinses his mouth and splashes water on his face, wincing at the blood-shot eyes staring back at him in the mirror. He's a fucking mess. Tomorrow morning when his alarm goes off and Catherine expects him in her office bright and early for a debrief, he'll regret every drink he ordered tonight.
Still, when he finally makes it out of the door and the cool night air hits him in the face like the fist of the bouncer guarding the entrance, his head feels clearer already. Clear enough that he hates himself a little for instinctively reaching for his phone, but also clear enough to realize that not checking it won't calm the frustrating need for some kind of closure he can't shake.
It's an exercise in futility, either way. The screen doesn't even come on when he thumbs the home button. The battery must have quietly withered away from Tommy's constant fiddling. Maybe it's for best. At least he has an excuse to put the phone away and leave it alone for a while. Stop holding his breath for Bubonic's next move.
The sound of footfalls behind him makes him spin around.
It's— the same guy from before. He's put on a coat that makes him look taller, older. Or maybe that's the sodium glow of the streetlights casting shadows on his face, harsh black shapes that move as he approaches.
Tommy frowns. He never got the guy's name when they were inside. In hindsight, it feels like a mistake. He isn't entirely sure how he feels about being followed. Maybe it's his fault. Maybe the kiss left the wrong impression, made it look like Tommy wasn't entirely serious about needing a raincheck. He raises an eyebrow and stands a little taller. "If you're going to mug me, I should warn you. I'm a cop."
He aims for somewhere between a joke and a warning, hoping it'll hit the right note. Get the hint across, no hard feelings. Leave the door open.
The guy's mouth curves into a slanting smile, mockery that could be directed at himself or at Tommy, or both of them. "Planning on pulling a gun on me again? Are you sure that's advisable in your state? You might hurt yourself."
It's the again that gives Tommy pause.
He doesn't make a habit of drawing his gun. It doesn't happen that much, and rarely when it's not warranted. And then, at once, with the sudden clarity of wiping cobwebs off half-forgotten memories, he remembers why he couldn't shake the sense of recognition earlier.
His loft, last year. Bubonic's little stunt. The hapless guy who thought he was responding to an ad and found himself facing down the barrel of Tommy's gun. Of course he seemed familiar. What are the odds—
Shit.
The realization comes at him like a freight train, followed by a rush of embarrassment and anger and disorientation. Stupid. So fucking stupid. There are no odds, because the existence of odds implies an element of chance, not the carefully orchestrated scheme this is.
His neck feels clammy with cold sweat, and the chill of the air makes a shiver run down his back. His tongue is like lead in his mouth, refusing to form words.
"Have you figured it out yet? You're not very perceptive tonight, are you, Detective Calligan?"
Bubonic's voice curls around his name, the way it's done a dozen times before, and the familiarity of it makes Tommy's heart beat faster.
It takes him a moment before the insult hits, a few seconds' delay that further proves Bubonic's point. Tommy really isn't on the top of his game tonight, hasn't been even before he touched a single drop of alcohol. But Bubonic doesn't have to know that, not any more than Tommy already admitted.
He finally finds his voice again. "Oh fuck you, I told you I had too much to drink."
It comes out a lot milder than he intends, indignant, still too stumped to muster any real viciousness.
"Ah, yes, drowning your sorrows because you couldn't stand being ignored. Well—" The dramatic asshole makes an exaggerated theatrical pause for effect and smiles. "Good news, I suppose."
Despite himself, Tommy laughs. Can't stop himself. The sound rips out of him, harsh and disbelieving, and it feels like it pulls his insides apart.
"Lucky me," he bites out.
"You know I hate to disappoint." There's a lofty, insincere lilt in Bubonic's tone. Unaffected, like he's enjoying watching Tommy twist himself in knots in a detached, impersonal kind of way.
Except... He didn't need to follow Tommy out here. He could have let Tommy go home, satisfied to leave him with the embarrassing realization that he's been craving Bubonic's attention so badly it had him reeling. More so, he could have let Tommy believe that he'd lost that attention.
Instead he's here, taking the risk of confronting Tommy face to face. No code, no pixels, no proxy, no mask.
And Tommy has no intention of letting him hide behind a different kind of mask, not when all of his own have been so thoroughly stripped away.
"Yeah, good thing you can't stand staying away," he says, pointedly. He starts walking towards Bubonic, holding his gaze as the distance between them shrinks step by step.
Bubonic stands his ground, his eyes narrowing at Tommy's approach. The dim yellow-tinted light dulls that frosty blue, darkening it so much that it looks almost black. He doesn't seem to be concerned about letting Tommy too close, brazenly unperturbed that Tommy might arrest him or shoot him or do any of the things he should probably be doing.
"Oh, I'm just having fun. No need to flatter yourself," he scoffs.
Tommy nods. "Right," he says. Placid agreement, appeasement before he goes for the jugular. "Bullshit."
Something ripples across Bubonic's features. Anger. Suspicion. Uncertainty. Jesus, his face is so damn expressive, no wonder he wants to hide it away behind that fucking plague doctor mask. After such a long time of being denied the chance to watch the emotions bloom in every flicker of those eyes, every tense line, every quirk of his lips, Tommy can't stop himself from drinking them in.
He presses on before Bubonic has the chance to put his defenses back up. "Sure, you were at IRL tonight because you like messing with me. But right now? You're out here because you can't fucking stand the idea of letting me walk away without realizing that it was you. Because you wanted me to know that when I talked about how I'd been stood up, I didn't just tell some... some cute, wide-eyed stranger who had no fucking clue what I was admitting to, but that I shared that with you. And I guess you really needed me to know who it was I was kissing."
For a split-second, Bubonic's gaze flickers to Tommy's mouth. If his face wasn't angled towards the streetlamp, Tommy might have missed it.
When Bubonic speaks again, his voice holds the same mockery it always does, but there's a new, unfamiliar edge to it, strained. "And tell me, Detective Calligan, how do you feel about that, now that you know?"
It's a good question too, designed to cut the legs out from under him.
And it might, if Tommy gave himself time to think about it. If he wasn't so tired and on edge and so fucking tired of being on edge. If he hadn't spent the entire day feeling like he was holding on to a live wire. If he couldn't still remember the feeling of Bubonic's mouth under his, the way his eyes had gone wide in surprise, the tightening of his fingers around Tommy's arm.
"You tell me."
Maybe he hasn't sobered up as much as he thought because his head is swimming when he takes that last step forward, right into Bubonic's space.
For a second time that night, Tommy's the one who moves in for the kiss. It's nothing like the first one. Before, at the bar, he was offering a suggestion. Now he's making a point. He doesn't know what that point is exactly, but he knows he needs to make it now because if he's spending another year chasing phantoms in the Darknet and waiting for Bubonic to decide when it's time to make a move, he's gonna lose his fucking mind.
He clenches his fist in Bubonic's collar, so tight that his knuckles ache, and he isn't sure whether he holds on as hard as he can to keep himself steady or if it's to stop Bubonic from running.
Bubonic doesn't run, anyway. Doesn't even try to pull away.
Tommy's the one who leans in, but Bubonic is the one who ups the ante, who takes the unrelenting pressure of Tommy's mouth against his and pushes back. He bites at Tommy's lips, barely waiting until they fall open before he surges ahead, deepening the kiss. And then his tongue is in Tommy's mouth, tasting him, owning him. Hot and wet and furious, like he's staking a claim.
His hand trails up the back of Tommy's neck. Pleasure prickles down Tommy's spine at the touch, right until Bubonic's fingers twist in his hair where it's long enough to grab and give it a hard jerk. The sting startles Tommy, but whatever sound of protest he makes gets swallowed by the hungry mouth that covers his.
Bubonic drags him back an inch, just enough to break the kiss. He holds on so tightly that Tommy can't move either way without actually using force. Years of training and well-honed instincts tell him to twist away and shake off the grip. He ignores them, pushes them down into a far corner of his mind, and stays perfectly still.
Bubonic's eyes burn into his. "Let me make myself very clear, Tommy. I have no intention of ignoring you. I am never—" his voice quivers with fervor, "never going to leave you alone."
It's— It's meant to be a threat. Of course it is. Tommy's pretty sure that's what Bubonic's aiming for.
It doesn't explain the raw feeling of relief in the pit of his stomach, like something that's been coiled tense and tight all day – all year – is finally coming loose.
"Good," Tommy says, firmly. With a slow exhale, he makes himself relax into Bubonic's hold. He lets himself feel the knuckles digging into his scalp, the heat of Bubonic's breath fanning across Tommy's face, the way the space between their bodies melts into nothing. "I'm gonna hold you to that."
End