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Tom spears a French fry on his fork, and it’s somehow soggy and burnt at once. It’s revolting. This diner is revolting. This food is revolting. Tom’s whole entire life leading up to this moment has been a mess of revolting, revolting, revolting.
Greg sits across from him in his pajamas, poking at a beige-colored omelette, and Tom considers the merits of hating him, but he finds that he can’t.
It’s ridiculous, really, but then again- is it? Tom’s terminal. Tom’s a walking, talking car-wreck. He’s standing in the way of a slow-motion screwball, and it doesn’t matter if he moves. He’s going to get hit regardless.
So is it ridiculous? To let Greg hang his bauble on Tom’s branch? To take a hit for Greg?
The thing, the horrible fact of it all, is that Tom knows he’ll keep taking hits for Greg. He’ll willingly be the wounded soldier. He'll take a million bullets. He’s Greg’s meat-shield, and he’s honestly not sure if Greg appreciates the human armor or not.
“You know,” Greg starts, stuttering and stupid, “the food might not even be that bad, man. Or you’ll get used to it eventually.”
Tom sort of wants to stab him in the hand with his dull knife, and then stab himself. Some real twisted Shakespearean bullshit. He wants to bleed out in this slimy diner in Greg’s slimier arms.
What’s your game here, Greg? Tom thinks, stabbing another fry. Why’d you answer my phone call in the middle of the night? Why’d you agree to come here with me? Are you just playing me?
Across the booth, Greg looks away, seemingly understanding that Tom isn’t going to answer. He tucks a gangly elbow against his Adidas sweatshirt and bends into himself, the way he always does. Greg moves like he’s controlled by a ghost enjoying its first day possessing his body- all spastic and unsure and always, always trying to minimize the amount of space he takes up.
Tom can’t stop watching him. You can sprawl into my space, you know. I’d welcome the company.
It doesn’t matter if Greg’s playing him. Everyone is always playing Tom, but they all think he’s too stupid to notice. That’s another thing about Tom- he’s not an idiot. He’s smarter than they all realize. He’s smart enough to sit quietly in the back until he’s ready to claim what he needs. The rest of them are too mouthy and selfish to take a beat. They want attention, power, money, whatever it is, as quickly as they can get it.
Tom’s been strategizing since he was a little boy. He’s learned when to retract his talons and wait it out.
Except apparently, when it comes to Greg. The talons are out, all the time. The talons are unable to be retracted.
“Why’d you do it?” Tom asks, spewing word vomit before he can stop it. Greg, the ridiculous buffoon, scrunches up his nose like he has no idea what Tom’s talking about.
“Huh? Do what?”
“You know, fuckwad.” Tom pushes his plate aside and leans forward. “All of it. Why’d you fuck me, man? Why’d you toast me?”
“Tom-”
“The fucking papers, Greg. Why’d you keep them?”
I thought we were in this together, he wants to say. I thought you were my one true ally here.
“Tom, dude. I- you know that this was the likely outcome regardless of those papers, right? I didn’t even know what was on them. I just, like, grabbed them. Knee-jerk.”
“Uh-huh.” Tom shakes his head. “I just don’t get it, Gregory. I’ve saved your ass a million times. Why do you have to scorch mine?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I seriously didn’t, dude. It just-”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tom signals for the check. “It happened. I’ll still let you hang your bauble, Gregory. As dagger-shaped as it may be.”
“Tom-” Greg starts, almost desperately, his eyebrows furrowing together. Tom just shakes his head, shushes him gently, and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. He misses, overshoots, and catches Greg around the bony wrist instead. He still squeezes, gently, carefully, and runs his thumb along the underside of Greg’s wrist, along smooth skin.
Boar on the floor, Gregory. I saved you then, right? I’ve set a precedent. I’ll save you again.
Greg shifts forward, his hand surging toward Tom’s, and Tom honestly cannot handle anything like that right now. He withdraws gently, giving Greg the kindest smile he can muster. It’s small and lukewarm but it’s all he’s got right now. Everything is too bleak and grey all the time to spend his change on smiles and the like.
“Thank you, Tom.” Greg says softly, hanging his head. “I- seriously. Thank you.”
“I’m already in for a penny, Greg.” Tom says, and then, trying to say what he means, tacks on, “I told you I’d take care of you. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, Tom.” Greg glances up as the waitress sets the check down. “Yeah, you did.”
In a hospital room a million years ago, Tom signed his metaphorical contract with Greg. He knows what role he took on. He’s going to take care of Greg, and he hates that he keeps doing it, but he can’t help himself. He's going to care for Greg until it kills him, and it's horrid and awful but that's what his life is, isn't it? Doing things he hates over and over again. Swallowing the blood down and ducking his head and moving forward.
But you don't hate looking after Greg, do you? You like it. Admit it. Admit that you love it, and you don't know why, and you can't stop.
Tom pays for dinner, and leads Greg outside into the late, late night air.
Back in the suite, he’ll drink that awful wine until he feels heady enough to slip into bed beside Shiv, and he knows that he won’t feel anything like guilt for sneaking away to have a midnight breakfast in a twenty-four hour diner with her cousin. And he knows, in the same vein, that she wouldn't care if she knew. It seems that no one cares about Tom’s actions these days, but he keeps acting for other people. He’s like a little kid on the playground, doing silly things to hold everyone else’s attention for just a moment.
In the car beside him, Greg reaches over and squeezes Tom’s hand, the way Tom wanted to do in the diner.
Tom turns to look at him, his face silhouetted by the moonlight outside the window. He looks like a great weight has been lifted off of his chest.
Tom feels Greg’s weight pile onto his. But it doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s Giles Corey: more weight, more weight, more weight.
Being crushed doesn’t hurt as much as you think it does. It just makes you feel numb.