Work Text:
“Hey Stretch! Wait up!”
Greg whirls around to find a mildly sweaty Tom jogging after him down the marble stairs. Not like his boss to run in a suit, so he figures this must be urgent.
Oh God, what now.
“Tom? What’s, uh— where’s the fire?”
“Man alive,” Tom sighs as he finally catches up. “Those long legs of yours sure can move. You want a ride home?”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Greg replies, relieved but somewhat unsure as to why this had warranted such a sprint. “That’d be great, um… I mean, if it’s not too much of a detour for you?”
He feels compelled to ask this as a common courtesy, but Greg already knows it’s no problem. Lately Tom has been making it abundantly clear that he would gladly take a detour on his way home just to hang out with him for half an hour or so, to talk about their day and shoot the shit. And Greg happily takes him up on the offer every time, because after Ken had kicked him out of the Tribeca apartment and thus forced him to relocate, Greg’s commute to and from work has been so much longer. Hitching a ride with Tom makes the time go by faster.
He figures this is Tom’s way of coping after his split from Shiv. Lately Greg has been taken out to dinner by his boss several days a week, or taken out shopping for fancy clothes. These hangouts really only used to happen on the odd weekend when Shiv was out of town, but nowadays it’s almost daily. And while he doesn’t mind being spoiled and pampered, Greg has to wonder if it’s all just a matter of Tom wanting to stall for as long as he can on going home to his empty hotel room. But he also likes to think that Tom simply enjoys his company.
And he certainly does seem to enjoy it, the way he hangs onto Greg’s every word as their car shuffles slowly through the rush hour traffic down Broadway. While his best friend-slash-underling relays to him the events of his workday, however mundane, Tom is all ears, sitting cross legged facing Greg, resting his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the middle seat armrest. The sight of him is reminiscent of a nosy aunt listening to the latest gossip over family dinner.
While Greg jabbers on, Tom won’t take his eyes off him. He has got this dozy smile plastered on his face as he listens to all the silly anecdotes, occasionally laughing along. Tom’s laugh is a nice sound when he’s laughing with Greg instead of at him.
“Hey,” Tom suddenly cuts in, poking Greg in the arm. “You wanna go somewhere for dinner tonight?”
“Tonight? Uhhh… I can’t.”
A wave of disappointment washes the blissful smile off of Tom’s face.
“You can’t?” he echoes. “Why, what’s more important than bro time? Huh? Got a three-way date with a bottle of lotion and some Kleenex? Ahahah.”
That jab would sting, if it were even remotely true.
“No, dude… I’ve actually got like, a real date.”
“Fuck off!” Tom scoffs.
“I’m going out with Maria.”
Tom is bewildered; an odd, puzzled look settles on his face, as if to say Who the fuck is Maria?
“You know, the Contessa?” Greg clarifies.
At that, a lightbulb seems to go on inside of Tom’s brain. But now he’s frowning like someone just shat in his cereal.
“Yeah, I didn’t think I’d see her again after Tuscany,” Greg explains. “But her family’s got a place in Soho and she was in town for the weekend to do some like, promotional photo shoot or whatever for her yoghurt thing? She just messaged me on Insta.”
“Huh,” Tom replies.
Both his tone and expression are suddenly flat as a pancake. Greg figures his boss doesn’t quite grasp what ‘Insta’ means — Tom being of the Sony Walkman generation and all — but he continues his story anyway:
“Yeah, and she took me to her favorite restaurant last night. And she even paid!”
“Right… right.”
“Like, I tried to offer, but she just wouldn’t have it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The food wasn’t— I mean it was very healthy. Lots of um, whole grain.”
“Hm.”
“And you know what else?”
Tom says nothing, just stares back at Greg with this dubious expression. A crease deep enough to rival the Marianas trench has formed between his eyebrows. Still Greg presses on.
“We held hands,” he confesses, beaming.
His boss responds with a sharp, barking laugh, but Tom’s sudden burst of mirth turns as quickly as a glass of milk in the desert. A stifling silence follows in its wake, wherein all that can be heard is the faint honking of cars and Tom’s labored breath coming out through his nose.
“Is that right,” he finally replies, his voice strained and hollow.
Greg nods.
He doesn’t carry on, Tom’s sudden and disconcerting turn of humor now having him slightly worried. Am I being annoying? he wonders. Am I coming off like a silly little kid?
Even so, Greg is too happy to care. If he can make it work with Maria — if he plays his cards right and doesn’t reveal too much of himself too soon — he could be actual royalty! Sure, so maybe she hasn’t made him feel those stomach butterflies that everyone keeps talking about… but neither did Comfrey, and Greg had liked her. He’d liked her well enough, anyway.
Yeah, he likes Maria. She is rich and beautiful and nice. So what if their conversations are kind of dry and health food-oriented. Maybe he’ll get the butterflies later. No biggie.
Tom doesn’t appear to be all that interested in Greg’s burgeoning love life, however; he has turned away now and is looking straight ahead, as if the back of the driver’s head is a lot more intriguing than whatever Greg has got to say.
Well, no matter. They’re stuck at a busy intersection, and nowhere near home yet. Somebody’s gotta do all the small talk, right?
“Anyway, I don’t wanna be, y’know, ungentlemanly or whatever and like, kiss and tell, but uh… heh, we did. We kissed. Out the front of her apartment, before she went in.”
“Hm,” Tom grunts.
“She actually invited me up, too, but I figured… like, if I take it slow and play hard to get— yeah, I dunno, I just thought she might like a guy who’s not in any rush, y’know?”
It’s only a half-lie. Best to keep up the appearance of a ‘machiavellian fuck,’ as Ken had once called him, than confess to Tom that he’d chickened out at the last second.
Tom doesn’t reply this time, just turns his head to the side and stares out the window like a moody teenager on a family road trip. Props his elbow up against the door and cradles his chin in his hand.
God, now he thinks I’m boring, Greg worries. He thinks I’m a boring loser or something, just because I didn’t fuck her.
Maybe he knows. Maybe Tom can see right through him. Maybe his keen eyes can peer into Greg’s past like he’s got a magical looking glass, and see that the farthest he has ever gotten with a girl was some clumsy heavy petting in the backseat of his car, cut short by his own panic when the girl had reached down to touch his dick and found that it was still soft. Maybe Tom can see every kiss Greg has pulled away from, every date he’s stood up, every burgeoning relationship that he’s put an end to before it got too serious.
“But uh, I’m seeing her again on Friday,” Greg adds, trying to rectify the situation, perhaps even trying to reassure himself. “So maybe then… I mean, who knows, we might end up doing more than just holding hands and ki—”
Tom stops him with a swift and stern hand in the air.
“Alright, enough, Greg! Enough.”
“What?”
“I don’t wanna hear about your fucking… sasquatch mating rituals, alright?”
“Okay…?”
“Yeah, I don’t need to think about somebody touching you, or… making out with you. It makes my stomach turn.”
Well, that one stings. Greg has gotten used to Tom making fun of his appearance by now, but this time it’s different. His tone is harder now — cruel, even. Tom makes no effort to hide his disgust with him, and it hurts. It really hurts knowing that the person who calls himself your “best friend” thinks you’re gross and unlovable.
“I thought you’d be happy for me, Tom,” Greg mutters.
“What on Earth would make you think that?” Tom snaps.
Greg won’t dignify that with an answer. He just stares out the window, mirroring his moping boss.
Because you’re supposed to be my best friend, asshole.
Greg almost says this out loud, but he is stopped by a little voice inside his head — which sounds an awful lot like his mom, he realizes: Greg, use your brain! Don’t gush about your love life to a guy who just got divorced!
Begrudgingly, Greg concedes that Mom Voice is right. When he really thinks about it, he knows exactly why Tom is acting like such a dick; the poor guy is obviously just bitter and envious because his own marriage had failed so spectacularly. After all, it can’t be easy watching your best buddy scaling the date ladder while you’re stuck at the bottom of the date elevator shaft.
On the other hand, Greg has to remind himself that this is very much a problem of Tom’s own making; since becoming single and having bagged this position as Logan’s new favorite, Tom Wambsgans has been featured in a fair few Most Eligible Bachelor lists, and has certainly not been short on offers — however, for reasons unknown to Greg, he has turned every single one of them down. All these gorgeous, rich, smart, powerful women, basically throwing themselves at Tom’s feet, and he just swerves around them like they’re slugs on the sidewalk.
Greg thinks he gets it, though. He might not have been in a marriage before (or even in a relationship that lasted longer than three weeks) but he knows from secondhand experience that it takes time to feel comfortable about putting yourself back on the market. Greg can remember how his mom was like that, too, after the whole mess with his dad. And the prospect of a new relationship would of course be an especially worrisome conundrum for Tom, in the wake of the Shiv Shitstorm. Of course it would.
Greg gets it.
He recalls one time, some weeks ago, when he’d been to dinner with Tom. Greg had asked him if he might want to start dating again, to which Tom had squeezed his hand and told him, “What am I gonna do with another wife? I’ve got you.” How they had laughed!
That had been such a good night, looking back on it; they’d eaten and drunk and been merry, and had ended up back at Tom’s hotel suite, where the party had continued, just like the first night Tom had taken him out. Just the two of them, eating room service on the bed and drinking champagne straight from the bottle just for the hell of it. When Greg had first touched the mouth of the bottle to his lips, he’d thought to himself, This is a bit like I’m kissing him, but Tom’s encouraging “Chug! Chug! Chug!” had almost drowned out those thoughts.
That night they had ended up sleeping head-to-head on the sectional sofa in the lounge. Tom had stroked Greg’s hand until he’d fallen asleep, feeling well fed and well taken care of. That had been nice. And maybe it was all a little bit gay, but that’s alright. They’re best friends. Best friends can get a bit gay with each other without it actually being gay, right?
Greg’s internal monologe is cut short by a weird, kind of hiccuping sound coming from his left.
Tom’s breath is coming in heavy now, and even though he’s turned away from him, Greg can see his lip wobbling. Shimmering tears drip off the edge of Tom’s chin.
When did that happen? What the fuck was it that I said?
Greg is just about to open his mouth and say something, when the car comes to an abrupt halt by the sidewalk.
“We’re here, Mr. Hirsch,” the driver says, stepping out of the car to open the door for him.
Greg ignores that.
“Tom, are you…? Dude—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Greg,” Tom chokes out, still staring out the window.
Aw jeez, you’ve really stepped in it now, Greg.
“Hey. Hey, Tom,” Greg says, leaning closer and reaching out to touch his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. You’ll find someone new, too! I promise.”
This only seems to make it worse.
“Can you just get the fuck out of the fucking car, Greg?!” Tom pleads.
“Tom—”
The driver ducks his head in through the car door:
“Mr. Wambsgans would like you to leave now, Sir.”
Once again, Greg ignores him.
“Dude, Tom— I didn’t mean to—”
“Mr. Hirsch…”
“Alright, okay,” Greg huffs, undoing his seatbelt and swinging his long legs out of the car. “Yes. Okay. Fine. I’m going.”
Watching as the car turns and peels off down the street, Greg is left standing there on the sidewalk feeling like a real piece of shit.
No, this is not on me, he finally decides. No. Fuck this. I haven’t done anything wrong.
Greg tears off his tie and jacket as soon as he walks in through the door of his apartment, tossing them on the floor of his living room, as if to spite Tom. He pops the top buttons of his dress shirt, grabs a beer from the fridge and makes himself comfortable on the chaise lounge — which Tom had bought for him, his stupid brain reminds him — and attempts to unwind with a joint and some dumb videos on his TikTok feed.
However, the nagging feeling that he is somehow to blame for Tom’s sorrow soon returns. Greg doesn’t like upsetting his boss — not just because he’s his boss, obviously, but because they’re friends. Tom has been really good to him, and he still is… well, for the most part. When he’s not being an unreasonable dick, that is. Either way, he doesn’t want to see Tom cry. It feels bad.
Before he can stop himself, Greg has sent him a text:
I didn’t mean to put you out, man. I’m so sorry :(
He doesn’t wait for a reply before he sends another, more elaborate text.
Please don’t be mad at me, dude. I didn’t mean to brag and boast and rub salt in your wound or whatever. I know you’re going through a super hard time rn, I was just so excited because I really like her. I’m sorry if I was being insensitive. I wasn’t thinking.
Maybe we can hang out tomorrow after work? We can go to dinner? My teat :)
*treat
There are so many more things that Greg would like to say to him, but he can’t seem to find the words right now. The weed sure doesn’t help — however, he doesn’t think he could find the words even if he were stone cold sober.
So now he just waits to see that small speech bubble with the three dots appear on his screen.
And boy, does Tom make him wait.
Greg wakes with a start.
For a few terrible seconds, he is unsure whether he’s alive or dead. He squints at his wristwatch; it is just coming up on 11PM. Greg is overheated, dehydrated, and his work clothes are sticking to his skin. The upended beer bottle has left a wet stain on the front of his shirt, and there’s a pile of ashes from his joint on the blue velvet upholstery of the chaise.
Rubbing his eyes, still half asleep, Greg groans and sets about cleaning up the mess. While he fires up his mini vacuum, he tries to make sense of the wacky weed dream he’d just been having.
There was this ladder, but it was made up entirely of women and girls: Emily from kindergarten, who he’d pushed into a puddle when she’d tried to give him a peck on the cheek; every girl at school that he’d started avoiding once the flirtations had become too real; his best friend’s younger sister, Cora, who had had a crush on him and made him feel somewhat uncomfortable; a college study buddy that he’d long since forgotten the name of; Jenna from the training program, with whom he’d almost gone on a movie date that one time; Alex from accounting; Comfrey; the Contessa. They were all standing on each other’s shoulders, holding each other up, creating a beanstalk that reached up to the high heavens.
Greg started climbing the beanstalk — for some reason he felt compelled to do so. But he made a point of apologizing to the ladies as he went along: “Sorry, shit, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, groaning and wincing as he stepped on their hands and crushed their fingers, using their hair to pull himself up. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I… I don’t mean to— this is embarrassing… just lemme know if I’m too heavy, okay? Sorry, fair maiden, I— I don’t wanna hurt you…”
The ladies, however, said nothing.
Greg made it pretty far up the beanstalk, his head nearly up in the clouds. But suddenly he was hit by this massive splash of water, and it almost knocked him off the beanstalk. Befuddled, Greg peered up. He expected to find rain clouds, but found something quite different:
Up there was a giant, looming over him. Massive. Weeping.
“..Tom?”
Another huge teardrop fell from Giant Tom’s baby blue cyclops eye, and this time it did knock Greg off the beanstalk.
That’s when he’d woken up, as he was plunging to the ground.
When he’s all done cleaning up the mess he’d made in his sleep, Greg pulls his phone out from his pants pocket to check on his other mess.
Still no reply from Tom, though, just the small print under his own texts:
‘Read 7:23 PM’.
Greg sighs, his heart heavy. He won’t be sleeping well tonight.