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“Folks, unfortunately a severe weather system is forming out in the Atlantic right now and we’re gonna have to make an emergency landing in Boston.”
The cabin fills with the groans of frustrated passengers, none more so than Sal who tosses his head back against the seat.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Hmmmm.” Tommy grunts, barely paying attention. His eyes are instead focused at the storm cell forming in the distance, pressure and precipitation forming a gray wall to the plane’s right.
“I coulda gotten us there.” He mutters. “Sure you could Maverick.” Sal pulls up the blanket he’d stolen from business class up to his chin, nestling close to Tommy’s shoulder. “Just wake me when we’re in Boston.”
The nose dips and Tommy feels that familiar flutter in his diaphragm, all that weight pointing towards land. They break through the cloud line, the city lights of the eastern seaboard nearly never ending in either direction along the coast. Sal snores once and Tommy chuckles, letting the other man’s head fall onto his collar bone.
It turns out to be a quick landing, the gear jolting onto the tarmac with a deafening bang. “Jesus Christ!” Sal shouts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “I told you to wake me once we got here, not when we burrowed into the damn ground.”
Tommy checks his watch, their squad is on shift back in LA, and the time difference means they’re certainly still awake. “You wanna toss a coin for who has to tell Cap we’re probably gonna miss the whole first day of the conference?” Sal begrudgingly agrees, yanking out his wallet and retrieving a spare quarter. “Call it in the air.”
“Heads.”
Sal curses George Washington’s name when a face appears on his palm. “This day keeps getting better and better.” They deplane quickly, pausing to stretch when they make it off the jetway.
It hadn’t been a long flight. There’s no such thing as a direct from LA to Maine, so their layover in DC was only an hour or so in the rear view mirror. But airlines these days had big guys like them twisted in knots just to fit in the seats, and their joints weren’t thanking them for it.
“I swear, I’m gonna get the CEO of Delta in a room one of these days and it’s not gonna be pretty.” Sal threatens as his neck pops back into place.
“You just handle Cap and I’ll handle the hotel stuff.” Tommy sighs, whipping out his phone and googling the nearest hotels. And then his eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “What the fuck?!?!”
All across town the hotels are ungodly levels of expensive. Even motel rooms he wouldn’t be caught dead in would have the LAFD expense accountant tearing his hair out.
And then he checks the date in his calendar. March 16th.
“Oh fuuuuuuuuuuck.”
He waves the screen in front of Sal who’s still frustratedly relaying their bad news to captain Burns. Sal puts his fingers over the speaker to muffle the sound. “Congratulations, you found your calendar app. The hell are you on about?!?!”
Tommy clicks on the next day and pushes the screen into Sal’s face again. “Oh, fuck me.” He groans. Sal gives their captain a curt goodbye and hangs up. “We’re not getting a hotel are we.” He says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not without selling a kidney.” Tommy responds, dropping his duffle onto the terminal floor.
“You know anybody in Boston?” Sal shrugs, grasping at straws.
“Why because I’m such an easy to get to know kinda guy?”
“I don’t know, you got that whole army loyalty thing going for you. There wasn’t a brother in arms who spoke exclusively in flat A’s in your unit?” Tommy bites his lip, hoping his sea change on Howie is enough to earn him some serious goodwill. “No, but there was one in ours…”
Sal snaps and pokes Tommy in the chest.
“Eli!!!”
“Eli.”
He pulls up the contact and prays to god the Bostonian hasn’t changed his number.
“ Tommy?!”
“Hey man, long time.”
“ Jesus christ you scared the hell out of me! Thought someone was dead or something. ”
Tommy makes a mental note to keep in better contact with his old friends before making their humble plea.
“No, no, nothing like that. I got Deluca here and we’ve got a bit of a situation. They sent us for the IAFF conference this year and we had to make an emergency landing in your neck of the woods, and we can’t get seem to get a hotel because-”
“- It’s fucking St. Paddy’s Day tomorrow.”
“Exactly.”
“ Well listen, I’ll put you guys up but I am not picking your asses up from Logan.”
“Totally get it.”
Sal’s face falls and Tommy holds out a finger to stop his disappointed look.
“ Alright well I’m glad to hear from you without anyone having to be dead. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks man, we owe you one.”
They say their goodbyes and Tommy pockets his phone, Sal’s hands wide waiting for an update. “Got any cab money city boy?” He jokes, turning and heading for the exit. A confused Sal follows in his wake. “We got a bunk or not?!”
“Easy big guy, I got you covered. Eli’ll put us up, we just have to get there.”
Sal breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god for Irish hospitality.”
Hailing a cab proves easy enough even if the traffic is a veritable nightmare. Tommy can’t blame Eli at all for not wanting to be in the middle of all that. Every street seems to be a weird one way and he pities the out of towner that takes a wrong turn. They probably end up in Salem before they actually get to turn around and try again.
When they arrive, Eli and his wife Molly are standing out on the stoop. “Tommy!” She greets warmly. The woman had a way of seeing right through him in a way he both appreciated and feared. “Thank you so much for bailing us out.” He says softly, accepting her tight hug.
As he pulls back, Sal and Eli are exchanging a friendly handshake. The two had only overlapped for about five months at the 118, but Sal respected competence above all else and Eli had it in spades. They liked each other as much as a Red Sox and a Yankees fan possibly could.
“Where are the girls?” Tommy asks, surprised when the normally very inquisitive Cobb twins don’t immediately bite his ankles. Maybe they’re going through a shy phase, it has been years since he’s seen them after all. “At their grandma’s.” Molly answers. “With all the noise around here this weekend we usually send them out of the city if we can.” Eli jumps in.
“Shippin’ out of Boston.” Sal snickers.
Eli laughs like he’s annoyed that it's funny, waving them over the threshold and into the living room. “Couch is comfy enough.” He points. “And there’s a futon in the basement for whoever needs the extra room.”
“Dibs!” Sal raises his hand, and Tommy looks at him in betrayal. “What? No offense man but you sleep like you’re being buried.” Eli nods. “It’s true. One time me and Howie crossed your arms over your chest like a mummy. Probably still have the pictures somewhere.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Tommy smacks Sal’s shoulder fondly. “Couch looks really comfy anyway. You guys have a nice set up here.” Eli shrugs and kisses Molly on the top of her head. “We get by.”
Tommy is struck by the fondness in Eli’s eyes. As he understands it, the couple have known each other since high school, dating as young sweethearts, growing apart as young adults, and falling apart in Eli’s case. And somehow they’d found their way back. Through addiction, two cross country moves, at least 3 career changes, shift work, twins, and a nasty recession, somehow they’d made it.
It sorta makes Tommy wonder why he can’t seem to find someone to stick it out with him like that, what must be wrong with him.
“You guys tired?” Eli asks, looking at Tommy set his duffle down next to the couch. “Not really.” Tommy admits, “It’s only 6 in West Coast time, and sleeping beauty over here caught some z’s on the plane.” He says, gesturing at the door to the basement where Sal has gone to put his stuff.
“You’re in Sox territory now my friend!” Eli shouts down to him. “Opening day isn’t for two weeks!” Sal gripes back. “Until then, I’m Switzerland.”
Sal’s frame reappears in the doorway and he looks back and forth between Tommy and Eli, who is clearly hatching a plan.
“Weeeelllll… If you guys aren’t tired.”
-----
With music drifting out of the pub door, it sounds like it's about 1806. The firefighters can hear Irish flutes, accordions, a banjo or two, and a hand drum Eli has informed them is called a Bodhrán. A guy in a pageboy cap sings into a scratchy microphone, recounting the cargo of a ship before a storm promptly sinks her.
Everyone’s draped in green beads and a few sport those god awful shamrock printed cheap suits. Eli claps a hand on Sal and Tommy’s shoulders. “Have fun kids, Molly and I’ll grab a table if you guys could grab us a Guiness?”
Tommy nods and Eli smiles warmly, taking Molly by the hand and retreating into a corner. “Into battle?” Sal asks, nodding to the army of Bostonians lining up in front of the harried bartenders. “I got your six.” Tommy responds, slipping behind him as they charge into the crowd. It doesn’t take that long to get in front of the taps and request their pints. Tommy attempts at first to order a west coast craft beer and is immediately met with four gingers scowling at him.
He chuckles. “Alright Geez, I’ll take a Sam Adams.” The bartender nods “Good man.” The guy hits the tap and Sal orders a Guiness for their hosts and for himself. “When in Rome, right?” Tommy accepts one of the pints and his own beer and hoists it over the crowd making his way back to where Eli and Molly are squeezed into a booth.
“For the lady.” Sal nods at Molly, sliding the glass across the table. They drink in pleasant silence, taking in the atmosphere. A younger singer, in age but not in atmosphere, takes the microphone from the older musician. His voice is rough and gravelly, waifish body swaying with the tune.
“ I'm gonna make me a good sharp axe,
Shining steel tempered in the fire”
A few in the crowd raise a finger in the air, joining the singer's voice with their own tipsier ones.
“I'll chop you down like an old dead tree
Dirty old town
Dirty old town”
It’s a strange song. Violence and anger and a bad situation juxtaposed with messages of young love. It’s the rust belt and a teenage dream personified and collided. Strangely, Tommy thinks he can relate. He’s felt those feelings in some pretty rough straits as much as he’s tried to ignore them.
“I’ll get the next round.” He offers, swallowing down a painful lump in his throat and waving off Sal’s protests to come with. He orders two shots of whiskey and slams them on the bartop when he’s done. Pleasantly numb is preferable to….. To whatever this is.
Tommy uses his massive hands to loop through the handles of the four pint glasses, passing them over to the couple who are increasingly making moon eyes at each other. He feels bad for ruining their night. An evening without kids and with neither of them on duty is probably hard to come by.
“So any news to report?” Eli asks, barely taking his eyes off his wife. “Gerrard turned a previously undiscovered shade of purple when we finally booted him out of the 118.”
That gets Eli’s attention. “Gerrard’s GONE!? You bastards, I woulda sent a cake.”
Tommy and Sal shrug, “It’s definitely easier with that windbag gone but Burns isn’t much better.” Eli sucks his teeth with sympathy. “You’d think with a name like Burns he’d avoid a career in fire fighting.”
“That’s what I said!” Sal proclaims, clinking his glass with the Bostonian’s and taking a hearty sip. Tommy’s awfully fond of the red splotches that cloud Sal’s cheeks when he drinks. Or it could be the spirits he snuck back at the bar clouding his judgement.
“Please tell me there’s video.” Eli claps his hands together and rubs them. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Sal reaches into his back pocket and grabs his phone. Molly wraps her hands around Eli’s arm and leans in so she can see the screen. “God, I wish I could’ve been there.” She mutters under her breath. “I woulda poisoned him on the way out.”
Sal grins and before he can flirt Eli cuts him off with a “Just play the damn video Deluca.” Sal does, turning his phone sideways and cranking up the brightness.
“Whadya know, there is a god.” The couple giggles and leans their foreheads together, smacking the table with silent laughter as they watch the old captain bark and puff and practically inflate with rage. It strikes Tommy that Eli had to put up with Gerrard as long as he did, and had to put up with Tommy’s nasty antics on top of it. It sends an unpleasant pang of guilt up his spine.
Molly passes Sal back his phone. “And how’s Howie???”
“Good!” Tommy jumps in, eager for a topic that will put him back in a celebratory mood. “Yeah he’s trained up a new paramedic partner, you’d like her.” Sal nods. “Hen Wilson, she’s got skills.” Eli’s eyebrows fly up. “That’s high praise coming from you two.” He comments. “I’m glad to hear it. We sure do miss him though, the girls too.”
Tommy smiles good naturedly. “Hey who knows, maybe next year the conference’ll be in Boston and it’ll be Howie and Hen crashing your couch.”
“As long as everyone’s out by Opening Day youse is welcome anytime.” Eli jokes.
They drink to that.
A few more songs and their associated pints pass, a song about a man being resurrected by the power of Whiskey, one that seems to be about tax evasion, and one that had the crowd shouting “FINE GIRL YOU ARE!” at the end of each chorus for no discernible reason.
The redheads fill them in on their twins' latest antics, some of Eli’s new coworkers and how excited he is to not have to work tomorrow, and Molly gives Sal the best teacher’s lounge tea he’s probably ever received. The man’s practically in heaven. He lives for that shit, it had been one of the things that had made him so good at taking Gerrard down was knowing how to pry the right gossip out of people.
Different band members shuffle on and off the stage with each song, mixing and mingling with the crowd and grabbing drinks of their own. Tommy tries to imagine if all music gigs were like that, showing up to a big arena concert and having the main act hop down and share a pint with you before they go back up and finish the set.
Two fiddlers and a pianist remount the stage and the waifish singer returns, this time with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. The violins drum up a new tune and Molly smirks into her glass. “May I have this dance Mrs. Cobb?” Eli requests, getting to his feet and offering his hand. “You may.” She answers, joining him on the dance floor and circling each other slowly.
“Damn.” Sal breathes out, taking another sip of his drink. “Eli’s got game.”
The partner’s watch with shocked fascination, watching the dance, or more like a seduction occur on the crowded floor. Eli looks uncharacteristically cocky and it’s not hard to imagine how the man bagged such a smoke show. Molly releases her hair from its tie to a round of applause and a few wolf whistles as the couple separates and slowly moves back toward each other.
“You have your eye on Jimmy but you'd better let him be
Because when you go, Molly-o, you'll be gone with me”
Molly throws her arms around her husband’s neck and lets him spin her around, landing back on the ground without missing a step.
“I made a black bow for your bonny head
When will we be married Molly, when will we be wed
When will we be bedded in the same bed”
Eli picks up the underside of her knee and leans her back, whispering something only the two of them can hear. Her eyes go wide, the fiddlers breaking into a solo as the couple starts returning to their table.
“Ok…” Their host prefaces. “I’ll leave a spare key under the welcome mat for you. Use it any time in the next two hours and I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.” He practically throws Molly over his shoulder, the woman yelling “Have fun!” in her wake. They’re out the door before Sal and Tommy know what hit ‘em.
A moment of silence passes between the two men before Sal breaks the tension. “Go Eli.” he coughs. “Go Eli.” Tommy agrees, finishing off his pint.
They take the couple's place in the side of the booth that faces out, and Sal tosses an arm over Tommy’s shoulder, casual as anything. “I’m glad they sent us this time.” He remarks, aiming his slightly slurred comment more towards Tommy’s chin than anything else. “Yeah?” Tommy straightens, trying to downplay the way all the hairs on his neck just stood up. “Exhausted the L.A. dating pool already?”
Sal’s eyebrows furrow, determination fighting against intoxication. “No man, I mean us. Here. We never get to spend this kinda time alone together.” Tommy nods, all of his words failing him at the moment. Because Sal isn’t saying what Tommy wants him to be saying. Surely???
“Yeah.” He finally answers noncommittally. “It’s nice.” He notices Sal’s empty glass and is grateful for the escape. “You want another one?” Sal’s hand tightens around his shoulder as he attempts to slide out of the booth, his partner holding his gaze for what feels like an eternity. Sal looks sad, rejected even. It’s a foreign expression on a face so familiar to him.
“Shots?” Sal finally asks. “Whiskey, double?” Tommy nods. “Any preference?”
As if on cue, the older singer belts out “ Jameson Whiskey it’s good for the soooooouuul.”
“You heard the man.” Sal points, his normal mischievous smile seeming to slide back into place. Tommy breathes a sigh of relief and smiles back, hauling himself to his feet and getting back in the line.
He’s not sure if it’s all the booze or Sal’s confession that makes him walk up to the bar on shaky legs. “Whad’ya want.” Tommy taps his fingers on the bar. “You know what, I’ll take eight shots of Jameson, just put it on a tray I’ll take it back.”
The bartender shrugs and does as asked, loading shot after shot on the hard plastic surface. Each one seems louder as it's set down and Tommy doesn’t envy the future version of himself that has to deal with the hangover.
He lifts the tray carefully and returns to the table, Sal’s eyebrows flying up at the sheer volume of liquor. Tommy tilts his head back towards the crowd in response. “It’ll save us some trips.” Sal picks up a glass and gestures for him to do the same. Their glasses clink together with an overly cheerful ‘ ding’ “Sláinte.”
And that’s when things get…. Fuzzy.
Tommy’s vaguely aware of a nice looking girl pulling him onto the dance floor, advantageous only in that it allows him to join Sal there and keep the man from falling on his face. He’s glad he opted for comfy, less traction-y shoes. He’s never danced so fast before. He can feel the vibrations of stomping feet through the floor and the sheer body heat of that many people.
Tommy’s shocked the fire marshal hasn’t stopped by and broken the party up.
“Alright folks!” The older singer is back as well as a huge bald guitar player that has some sort of head contraption that allows him to play harmonica at the same time. Tommy had seen the guy putting it away at the bar earlier, drinking Guiness hand over fist. He wonders if that makes musical coordination easier or harder.
“This one goes out to our neighbors to the north.” A few Canadian expats lift their glasses and whistle and the guitar player claps in their general direction.
The song starts out almost disappointingly slow, just a few strums, a simple melody.
“ The night Paddy Murphy died is a night I’ll never forget
Some of the boys got loaded drunk and they ain’t been sober yet
As long as a bottle was passed around every man was feelin’ gay
O'Leary came with the bagpipes, some music for to play ”
The band comes alive in a split second, drums, accordions, fiddles, tambourines and all. The crowd responds just as instantaneously, like someone had crashed the stage and yelled “Green light!” at the top of their lungs.
Tommy sees Sal become a blur, bouncing and jumping and twirling with abandon. He himself can barely keep up, feeling less like he’s dancing and more like a buoy in a storm. Certainly no rhythm, tethered in a vague circle of movement easily shoved aside by waves or the nearest drunk not-an-irishman. He’s glad he got the whiskey in his system before he attempted this foolishness.
“That's how they showed their respect for Paddy Murphy
That's how they showed their honour and their pride
They said it was a sin and shame, and they winked at one another
And every drink in the place was full the night Pat Murphy died ”
It’s easy, so easy to let the crowd carry him around, only aware of where Sal is relative to the throng. Eventually they’re brought together, shoulders brushing against each other as Sal easily tosses an arm over his shoulder. He teeters far enough so his nose buries itself in Tommy’s jaw, and he shivers from head to toe despite the body heat.
“I should get you drunk more often.” Sal hums into his ear. Tommy takes it as a joke, supporting Sal’s head with the side of his index finger and raising his chin up to meet his eyes. He risks a wink he hopes comes off as comedic. “Why, so you can take advantage of my Irish dancing skills?”
They do another spin around their respective partners. Or somebody’s partners, he’s really lost track. “Fuck no.” Sal sputters, “This is not your kind of dancing Tommy, but I meant your face.” Tommy’s face twists into a perplexed tangle. “What about it?!” He has to shout now that the song has transitioned to something a lot more punk-ish sounding, the crowd turning into more of a mosh pit.
Sal grabs his hand and hauls him to slightly safer ground. “Free.” He explains. “You just look freer.” Tommy blushes again and bumps Sal’s shoulder. “Maybe I should get you drunk more often.” He jokes back. “It’s the only time you sweet talk me like this.” Sal waves his hand but it's endearingly uncoordinated. “Yeah, but it’s what I’m always thinking.”
His eyebrows knit together, like his brain just caught up with his mouth. Sal shakes his head abruptly, turning back to face the stage. “I know this one actually.” He comments, raising his fists to the sky.
Tommy wants to pull him back into a few moments earlier, interrogate him, cross examine him, figure out what his game is. The crowd doesn’t allow it, pushing them back towards the front and Sal beginning to scream sing while the soles of his shoes barely touch the ground from all the jumping.
“ Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess Singin' drunken lullabies!!!!!”
Tommy allows Sal to brace against him for support as he jumps, making sure Sal doesn’t stomp on anyone’s feet. Reminds him of when he hooks the man up to a safety line or checks his holds on the ladder.
They pass the song with Tommy not letting go, trying to have the conversation through touch since their voices are indistinguishable in the crowd. But Sal isn’t ‘talking’ caught up in the music, the crowd, the energy. That’s the thing about his partner is there’s always a force behind whatever he’s doing. Even at his most aloof, his most disinterested, the power lies dormant. It definitely isn’t dormant right now though, and Tommy enjoys the neon green and blinding white lights flash over the shadows of his impassioned face.
The electric guitar riffs come to an end and the crowd gives an enthusiastic round of applause. “Come on rock star, we need some air.” Tommy drags Sal by the belt loop out of the crowd and towards where they left their coats, bracing themselves for the night air.
“Fuuuuuuuuck.” Sal whines, rubbing his hands together and breathing hot air into them. “This shit is why I left New York.” Tommy rolls his eyes fondly. “Oh you big baby .” He pulls up uber on his phone and immediately thinks better of it. “You too much of an L.A. man to walk the couple blocks?” Sal shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Tommy like he barely heard him. “Home. Plane Tomorrow. Eli’s. Walk.” Tommy enunciates, trying to make sure his words get through Sal’s likely tinnitus impaired ears. Sal scans the street, looking up at the clear night. “Alright. If we have to”
Tommy turns toward Eli’s and takes a few steps before he finds Sal’s arm linking with his. “If you’re making me walk I’m stealing your heat.” Tommy bites down a smile and they’re off into the night, taking in the architecture and the decoration and the hum of anticipation that comes before a city is overrun with festivities.
Sal begins humming a tune and they’re practically Wizard of Oz skipping by the time they get to the corner. Sal even adopts the accent to make the rhymes work and Tommy just laughs at him, the morbidity, the absurdity, and yeah, the affection too.
“ She died of a fay-ver, and sure no one would save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
Now her ghost wheels her barrow
Through the streets broad and narrow”
And Tommy’s drunk enough to join in, waving to the smokers toasting them from another bar across the street.
“ Crying Cockles and mussels alive alive oh.
Alive alive oh alive alive oh
Crying cockles and mussels alive alive oh”
The chorus seems to rise up through the gap between rooftops, circling and dissipating into the New England air.
“Your irish accent is borderline offensive.” Tommy cringes, turning the corner with only a minor stumble, yanking his partner along with him. “What, you don’t think I look the part?”
“Do you, Salvatore Deluca, look Irish? Uhhhh no. Catholic for sure, but pope-y Mediterranean sun and Sicilian mourners catholic, not Aran wool sweaters and singing about the famine Catholic.” Sal snorts, nodding his head decisively as if reiterating a well practiced argument. “Yeah but Italians are hotter, ask anyone.”
He pauses a moment, talking with the hand that isn’t holding on to Tommy. “I don’t think you could pass for Irish either though.” Sal stumbles into him. “Kinard is Scottish, I looked it up.” He pops the P and Tommy, with all zero of his sober brain cells, boops his partner’s nose. Sal goes almost cross eyed as he does and it makes Tommy nearly forget his question. “What were you doing looking up my last name?”
Sal just giggles, swaying in closer and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. “Never you mind Tommy, never you mind.” It’s at this point Tommy’s luck catches up with him. They’ve actually reached their destination, making their way up the steps and staring down at the welcome mat.
“You get the key.” Sal begs, clutching his stomach. “I bend over, it’s not just gonna be me that comes back up. Don’t make me taste airplane food again Tommy. Please.” He rolls his eyes and hears his back crack a few times on the way down. “Alright alright, keep your shirt on.” He says, shoving the key in the lock and pushing the door open.
Sal opts to lean up against the door frame instead of just going in, looking him up and woah there big shifter, down. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” Sal asks, and the implication rings in his ears like a chorus of bells. His jaw opens and closes and opens again, his skin hotter than any fire he’s ever been in. Tommy looks down at Sal’s lips, and can feel that tug in his gut like a roller coaster which may or may not kill him. He takes one step forward, and Sal moves his feet apart as if to make room for his body. They’ve had what’s probably a lethal dose of Jameson between them but god who knows when this’ll ever happen a-
The door at the top of the stairs creaks open and Tommy steps back on instinct, the light switch flicking on. “Well if it isn’t tweedle dee and tweedle drunk. Get inside you’re letting the heat out.”
“Sorry.” Sal whisper shouts, regaining some semblance of composure as he pushes Tommy into the house and shuts the door behind him. Eli whistles the tune he and his wife had danced to back at the bar and practically skips down the stairs, making his way into the kitchen and chugging a bottle of gatorade. “There’s an extra trash can under the sink if you need it Kinard.” He comments, clapping them both on the shoulder and retreating back for the stairs. Eli pauses and turns back “You best turn the tv on loud too. That Mrs. Cobb’s an insatiable one.” Then he’s gone with a wink.
“10-4” Tommy salutes, grabbing the remote on the end table and turning on whatever NCIS rerun happens to be on at this hour. Sal lingers at the top of the basement stairs, and Tommy can feel his eyes on him. It was a fluke, a joking flirtation. Maybe Sal gets horny drunk but only on Guiness. If he doesn’t look at it, it’ll probably go away.
“Night Tommy.” Sal finally says. Tommy risks a glance over and immediately regrets it, because before him his partner is sporting the most “come hither” look he’s ever seen in his life. It makes his mouth water and his knees weak, glad the couch is there to catch him when they buckle.
He’s not gonna take advantage of this. And he’s definitely not going to allow himself to wake up to heartbreak on Eli Cobbs goddamn den futon in the morning. Reality smacks into him like a wall and he forces himself to snicker. It feels mean, the old Tommy clawing it’s way up and swiping at Sal for kicks, but it beats the alternative. And he prays Sal was too drunk to catch the relapse. “Night Sal.” He breathes out, returning his face to friendly, to teasing, to platonic. “Get some rest Romeo, there’s a whole new state to seduce tomorrow.”
Sal tilts his head, eyes narrowing at him. For a terrifying second Tommy thinks Sal is gonna call his bluff. But instead he just smiles. It’s not an ‘ I’m dropping it’ smile or a ‘ haha good joke friendly friend who is a friend’ smile.
Fuck it’s so much worse. It’s ‘ you’re not fooling anyone’, it’s “I’ve got your number now.” it’s “Not an if, but a when.” Tommy gulps, forcing himself to tear his eyes over to the television, where DiNozzo is annoyingly giving almost the same grin. Sal’s is less mean though, more intimate and less cocky.
Which again, is so much fucking worse.
Sal’s footsteps finally retreat down the stairs and Tommy slams his head into the pillow. He is not gonna fantasize about his partner. He is not going to think about how many steps it would take to crash into bed with him. He is not going to think about the conference and how they’ve probably got adjoining rooms there too. He’s not gonna think about it. He’s just not.
Tommy shouts into a pillow and turns up the volume on the remote. Drowning out his thoughts, drowning out everything with the sea of whiskey in his blood.
Everything except: not now, but soon.