Work Text:
Tom’s working in the studio when Anna comes in. She’s grey haired and sharp eyed; a woman of thoroughly British extraction, and she’s one of the senior partners — the Gethers in Allen, Prince and Gethers Architecture, in fact. She’d been the one to interview Tom when he’d applied to them for the Intern Development Program, and she’d taken an active interest in his development since. She’d even told him she would’ve liked to be his mentor for the IDP, except that IDP regulations outlined mentors should come from outside the junior architect’s workplace.
Still, she talks to him often enough; points out reference texts he could use or read, to develop his knowledge in this field or that concept. And she encourages project managers to take Tom on board for various tasks, which Tom’s endlessly grateful for. All her professionalism, though, doesn’t stop her from taking an almost maternal interest in his personal life.
“You are coming to the inter-firm function, aren’t you?” Anna asks him — all plush tones and rounded vowels — as she takes a seat beside him at the workbench.
Tom smiles but doesn’t look up, still carefully applying the roof to his foam board and balsa wood model of a current client’s office building. “Of course. You know me — I don’t miss parties.” His tone is flip, but this one’s going to be a big one — the staff of APG and two other firms in downtown LA, actually.
Plus, there’d been karaoke at the unofficial after-party, last time. Tom grins at the memory. Karaoke’s always good.
“And are you going to bring a plus one this time?” Anna’s tone indicates more than casual curiosity, and Tom looks up.
“What?”
“I’ve seen your man,” she says simply. The openness of it makes Tom smile. It’s usually Tom swinging by the gym to pick Tommy up, but Tommy’s been by more than once when Tom’s worked late. “He’s an awfully nice fellow to look at. Have you two been together long?”
“Uh, seven— almost eight months now?” Tom says. He’s not really sure why it comes out as a question, but it does.
“Seems rather serious.”
Tom’s smile starts off small, but it morphs into a grin by the time he says, “I like to think so.”
That seems to settle something for Anna. She pats him on the cheek, like he’s five or something. “Bring him to the party then,” she says. “I want to meet the man that makes our Tommy smile like that.”
Tom laughs. “Don’t—” he says, grinning, “—don’t call me Tommy when you meet him. His name is Tommy.”
Anna’s eyebrows hop. “My word, you two must sound absolutely narcissistic when you call each other’s names out in bed.”
She’s out the door, laughing, before Tom can do more than squawk.
—-
This is one of those times where Tommy’s the one waiting for him. He’s sitting in the lobby, on one of the leather waiting chairs, a business textbook balanced on his knee and propped open with one hand. Direct and Interactive Marketing, the spine reads. Whatever that means. Tom smiles at Tommy when he reaches him; greets him with a kiss and a quiet, “Hey.”
There are a few curious glances at them from passing work colleagues — probably checking Tommy out because, well— look at him, but nothing beyond than that. They do live in California, after all. But seeing the other architects makes Tom tense, as he’s abruptly reminded of Anna’s request — friendly order, really.
It makes him frown at Tommy, half-glum, half-anxious. Tommy’s met Rachel; he’s even met Tom’s parents. Both meetings had gone well, but Tommy has yet to introduce Tom to his family, and Tom’s suddenly uncertain over whether he’d be pushing it, if he asked Tommy to come with him to the function. If he’d be asking for more than Tommy’s willing to give, because Tom’s done that before — he’s kind of notorious for it, actually—
“What?” Tommy asks, taking in Tom’s expression. The directness startles Tom into talking, same as always.
“You, uh— well, not you, specifically, but my boss asked— well, kind of ordered— for you to come to the inter-firm party this Friday. Well, ordered me to bring you. Because she can’t order you. Obviously,” Tom closes his eyes briefly. Why is he so very, very awful at things like this?
Tommy is blinking at him, but doesn’t say anything. Probably trying to decipher what the hell Tom had just said.
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Tom rushes to add. Picks at the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s just, uh, everyone kind of knows about you, and Anna’s seen you, and they’re curious—” Ah hell. No, wrong thing to say, Tommy hates it when people are nosy about him. Tom winces, but keeps going, “—not bad curious. Just… you know. Curious. I’d like it. If you did come. But you don’t— have to.”
Tommy’s silent for a long, long while. Tom wishes he’d asked when they’d gotten back to his apartment, not in the middle of the lobby. He doesn’t look at Tommy. And then finally:
“This gonna be some hipster party?” Tommy asks dryly.
Well. Tom can’t help but grin, unaccountably relieved. If Tommy’s asking, it means he’s most likely going to say yes. “It’s full of architects and designers. You tell me.”
Tommy rolls his eyes. But he still doesn’t say no.
—-
Tommy in formal clothing is beautifully, gorgeously distracting. Well— it’s formal for Tommy, who lives in workout clothing or endless permutations of jeans and t-shirts. In reality, he’s just wearing business casual in dark navy and greys, but Tommy may as well be wearing a tailored suit from Savile Row, the way it’s going to Tom’s head. He wonders if Tommy had dressed himself or if he’d had help; Tom can’t imagine Tommy asking anyone for help with clothing— except he can, and the mental image of Tommy interacting with a department store clerk has Tom snorting champagne up his nose.
He wonders if he can get Tommy to dress like that more often. Wonders what he could give Tommy to ensure that it happens. He should stop thinking along these lines before his body reacts and someone reports him to HR. Because work function. Operative word being ‘work’.
Right now, they’re not near one another, which isn’t ideal, but Tom had needed to go to the bathroom — free champagne doing its thing — and when he’d emerged, Roy, one of the senior designers, had snagged him by the arm, pulling Tom over to introduce him to his wife as ‘that junior architect I was telling you about who sings like Jagger when he’s wasted’.
Tom had cast a worried glance over his shoulder, trying to pick out Tommy amidst the crowd, and had spotted Tommy standing with a small group comprised of Jerry, one of the mid-level partners, and Ilsa and James, two Level I architects who also happen to be engaged. How that had happened, Tom had no idea, but Tommy hadn’t looked trapped; seemed to be smiling at something Ilsa’s was saying. It had relaxed Tom enough that he didn’t try to get away immediately; had engaged in several minutes of small talk with Roy and his lovely wife Mara.
Until a sudden motion catches his eye.
He turns his head in time to see Tommy taking a massive swig of champagne, throat working as he swallows, and Tom’s instantly anxious. Jerry’s dominating the conversation at the moment, hand waving expansively as he espouses some undoubtedly jack assed opinion, and it’s clearly getting to Tommy, although his only outward reaction is a slight thinning of his mouth and his hands going restless; trying not to pick at his nails. And that’s not Tommy pissed off, that’s Tommy anxious.
Jesus. Tom didn’t bring Tommy here for him to feel intimidated, or humiliated, or for Tommy to doubt himself. There isn’t even any reason Tommy should feel that way; Jerry’s likely just mouthing off as usual, but Tommy can’t know that everyone in the firm takes Jerry’s unsolicited opinions and advice with a grain of salt. He’s an East Coast society man — New York-born and Harvard-educated — part of that social strata just outside of the Fortune 500 known as the middle rich. And he has that middle rich, limited world view on what constitutes a proper education, a proper job; a proper life. He isn’t nasty; just sheltered and thoughtless, but, whatever he’s saying, he’s getting Tommy’s back up.
Tom makes his excuses to Roy and Mara and makes a beeline for Tommy, winding through the crush of the people.
As he nears, Jerry’s words become more audible, “—and so I’m telling my niece, I’m saying, ‘Evie, why would you even consider going to Penn State when you’ve also been accepted to Yale and Brown?’”
Tommy must have volunteered that he was from Pittsburgh, Tom thinks, for Jerry to be talking about Penn State.
Jerry continues, waving the hand holding a glass of champagne around, “—I mean, Yale is no Harvard, but it’s still better than Penn State. No offense,” he says, making a placating gesture at Tommy. Ilsa and James both look resigned to listening to the story.
“And then she says, ‘Uncle Jerry, Yale doesn’t have the course I want to do,’ and then— and then—” Jerry snorts a little, “—she drops this: ‘I was thinking of going to a community college because their timetabling’s more flexible and I can fit it around my work at the studio’. Can you believe that? I told her her parents would die of shame if she did—”
Ah, fuck.
Ilsa and James laugh a little, and Tommy absolutely doesn’t. Tom practically sprints the rest of the way, wraps an arm around Tommy’s waist the second he’s there. He slants a smile at Tommy, saying, “Hey,” and Tommy makes a half-hearted effort at smiling back, but it drops off quickly. It makes Tom’s chest hurt to see it.
Tom nods at Ilsa and James; turns to Jerry, smile going a little brittle. “Jerry. How’re you doing?”
“Same old, same old, Tom,” Jerry says blithely. “I was just talking to your man Tommy here. He says he’s from Pittsburgh, so I was talking about—”
“I heard,” Tom interrupts, which probably isn’t tactful to Jerry, or smart, in letting Tommy know why he’d suddenly appeared so quickly, but—
Jerry doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, you’ll probably agree with me then—”
“No, not really,” Tom interrupts again, which is even more tactless, but he just doesn’t want to hear Jerry mouthing off anymore. He feels Tommy tense up further. And Jerry blinks at that — looks back and forth between Tom and Tommy’s expressions — and Tom can practically pinpoint the exact instant Jerry connect the dots, which— yeah, fantastic.
“Sorry, but you’ll have to excuse us,” Tom says, smiling tightly. “I— was hoping to introduce Tommy to Anna.” Which he isn’t, really, not right now; not with Tommy tense as fuck beside him, but it’s better than standing around listening to Jerry, with his moronic class consciousness and upper class pretensions.
Tom steers Tommy away, toward the penthouse balcony. Normally, the bulk of the party would be out there, it affords a beautiful view of the city — and Tom can see some smokers huddled out there — but it’s windy tonight, so the balcony and the area around it is pretty much devoid of people.
Mostly alone now, Tom looks at Tommy uncertainly and Tommy stares back at him in silence. He doesn’t look pissed, exactly, but that’s not a happy look in Tommy’s eyes and, damn it, Tom hates it when Tommy gets like this — shuts his expression down and goes silent until Tom can’t tell what he’s thinking.
Tommy’s an open book, except when he decides not to be.
Not sure what to do, Tom wraps his arm around Tommy’s waist again. There’s a huff of breath, then Tommy leans in, brushing a kiss over Tom’s temple. “You come over to make sure I didn’t bust somebody’s jaw?” he says quietly into Tom’s hair, voice oddly tense.
And Tom winces. He honestly hadn’t thought Tommy might interpret it that way. “I wasn’t trying to manage you or anything—”
Slight snort. “Taking me away from that asshole’s not managing me?”
Nuh-uh. Tom’s cutting this off at the pass. “Okay, I am. A little. But not like that. Not like what you mean. I didn’t interrupt because— it’s not because I’m embarrassed of you, or want to control how you might react, or anything like that. Never that, okay?” Tom’s getting better at the straight talking thing, but he still pulls back a little, so Tommy can see the sincerity on his face. “I just didn’t want Jerry to upset you. He’s just… he always mouths off like that. He’s just a dick. He’s mostly okay, when he’s working, but he’s a dick everywhere else. No one listens to him if it’s not something architecture-related.”
Another snort from Tommy, but he looks mollified, his body language a little less brittle. He’s not entirely okay, but it’s probably as close as he’ll get for now. Sadly, Tom can’t stand here forever in this little dark space with him. It’s a work function, Tom’s a junior architect — he’s expected to mingle and network, because it’s not just an in-house shindig; there are people from other big firms here too.
“Once more unto the breach?” Tom asks.
“Speak English, Hansen,” Tommy says, and Tom gives him a dry look because he knows that Tommy knows Henry V; he’d told Tom about that one guy in his unit who’d quoted Shakespeare extensively, who’d sometimes even acted out soliloquies during downtime.
The stories are coming more often nowadays, although they’re still not regular, or frequent.
“Ah, Tom, there you are,” he hears from over his shoulder. Anna and her pleasant rounded vowels. Tom turns, his smile less than stellar, but it still seems to be enough for Anna, who beams. She’s got her husband, Marcus, in tow. Ilsa and James are also with her, but, thankfully, there’s no Jerry.
God, he hopes this goes okay, because if Tommy’s expression goes any stonier, Tom’s going to neck himself out of desperation.
Anna gives Tom a butterfly kiss on the cheek, before turning to look at Tommy; gives him an appreciative once over, but returns her gaze to his face. “And you must be Tom’s partner. I’m Anna Gethers, and this is my husband, Marcus — it’s so lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Tom feels Tommy return to being stiff and he wants to sigh.
Tommy hates that word: ‘partner’. Hates the phrase ‘life partner’ even more, and Tom can’t exactly blame him. It sounds like Tommy’s his co-designer on a project or something, not— not the person Tom comes home to every day, talks to every morning and every night; the person Tom turns to with the full force of his love and affection and lust. Why does the English language have to blow so hard?
“Yeah,” Tommy says finally, sounding massively discomfited but trying to hide it. “I’m Tommy. Tommy Riordan. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Ma’am, Tom thinks. Tommy’s voice has softened a little too, the way it always does when he’s speaking to older women. Knowing what he does about Tommy’s childhood now, Tom’s simultaneously lovesick and pained.
Anna turns to Ilsa and James, saying, “I believe you’ve already met Tommy?”
“Yes,” James says, nodding. “We were discussing Penn State and, uh, community colleges before Tom spirited him away. Trying to find you, Anna. Apparently.”
“Ah?” Anna says, eyebrows going up.
Tom’s mouth thins. He should’ve been expecting this, maybe. Office politics still exist, even if he doesn’t work in an actual cubicle anymore, and the fact that he has Anna’s favour hasn’t gone unnoticed amongst the other juniors and the lower level architects. But he’d expected the digs to come against him, against his work — maybe even in the form of allusions to Tom fucking his way to the top, because, hey, it’s the 21st century and men can whore their way up the career ladder too, long-term monogamous relationship with a man be damned.
He hadn’t expected the shots to be fired at Tommy because what the fuck, who does that?
“You’re a community college boy, Tommy?” James asks.
Tommy stares at him, and Tom has an anxious second where he thinks Tommy won’t answer. But finally, Tommy says, “Los Angeles City College.”
“Scholarship?” Ilsa asks, like some demonic tag team, because, oh yeah, they’ve definitely got Tommy pegged as a poor relation, and Tom’s suddenly furious because they’re not being fucking fair.
“No,” is all Tommy says to that, and that seems to knock the gossipy slant to Ilsa’s question right out. She looks a little at a loss.
Anna is frowning at the weird undercurrent, and Tom sincerely hopes she’s smart enough— no, he knows she’s smart enough to see what’s going on. But she might not intervene because — even though she’s wonderful, and clever — she’s from the same background as Ilsa, James and Jerry, and sometimes certain biases come through, however unconsciously.
And then Marcus, who’s been squinting at Tommy in befuddlement, coughs a little in shock. “Wait— Tommy Riordan, the UFC fighter?”
Tom stares. Tommy stares. Everyone stares. Marcus — with his horn-rimmed glasses, one million Holga cameras, and genuine passion for the jazz stylings of Thelonious Monk — watches UFC?
“… Yeah,” Tommy says, eyeing Marcus like he’s some escaped, potentially dangerous genetic hybrid. “You follow UFC?” he asks, a little unnecessarily.
“I do!” Marcus says brightly. “And I thought it was you. I saw you from across the room and I thought, ‘that looks like Tommy Riordan’, but then I thought it couldn’t be — what would Tommy Riordan be doing at a function like this? But now it turns out you’re Tom’s mystery fellow, and what luck!” He reaches out to shake Tommy’s hand, saying, “I watched your fight against The Messenger, in person, two months ago.”
Tommy shakes his hand, and if his expression isn’t completely warm, it’s the closest he’s come to his usual expression since setting foot in the penthouse. “No sh—” he starts, before amending it to, “No kidding? Hamman was all right in that fight.”
Marcus nods heartily in agreement. “He was, in that fight. But he’s been having trouble lately, now that he’s moving up in the ranks, wouldn’t you agree?”
Seriously? Seriously, what— Tom’s suddenly seized by the urge to start laughing hysterically. Has to shove the heel of his palm against of his mouth, pretend he’s rubbing an itch on his nose, although he’s sure he isn’t fooling anyone.
The conversation slides away eventually from UFC to what Tommy’s studying; he’s not as comfortable talking about that, but, paradoxically, he also seems to be pleased that fighting isn’t all he has to talk about. Everyone else falls by the wayside in the face of Marcus’ relentless enthusiasm, and Marcus is even starting to lead Tommy away from them, determined to talk one on one, like the crazy fan that he's turned out to be.
Everyone’s still too stunned to protest, even Tommy, a little. He just walks along with Marcus, replying to Marcus’ questions and staring.
“Well,” Anna says finally, blinking. “That was— unexpected.”
Understatement, Tom thinks. Just nods. He very carefully doesn’t look at James or Ilsa. Thinks he might give into hysteria if he does.
“I can’t believe my husband just completely stole him away,” Anna complains to no one in particular. “The nerve of the man.”
Tom bursts out laughing.
—-
Although Tommy’s apparently been rescued by the fortuitous arrival of Marcus — seriously, Marcus? — it’s still not all fun for Tom.
Because Jerry, how the fuck, corners Tom later, when it’s Tommy turn to need the bathroom. He get Tom near the balcony again, probably for the same reason Tom had taken Tommy over before — the seclusion. Tom looks past him, out through the floor to ceiling windows, at the lights of Los Angeles and the bright, twisting lines of traffic that could carry him and Tommy back home.
Jerry is blunt. Alcohol helping loosen his tongue, probably. “So that’s the man you’ve spent over half a year mooning over?”
Tom’s jaw goes tight. “Yeah. He is.” I don’t see how it’s any business of yours, he almost says, but that’d be unspeakably rude. And although Jerry’s being a fucking dick, he’s still a mid-level partner. He’s got the ability to make Tom’s life difficult, if he so chooses, for whatever fucking reason. Tom’s stomach starts to clench at the idea of confrontation.
Jerry ignores his short tone. “Tom, I’m going to be frank about this. Do you know many architects that date UFC fighters?”
Tom smiles grimly. People have definitely been talking about him and Tommy; Jerry had been nowhere near them and Anna at the time.
“No. But then again, I don’t know many UFC fighters, other than Tommy. I don’t know that many architects, either. Not closely enough to form a relationship demographic study.” Deep sarcasm that sails over Jerry’s head.
“Well I do know several architects and their partners.”
Bully for you, Tom thinks. “I don’t see why we’re discussing this,” he says instead. He thinks the no, really, fuck off tone in his voice is pretty clear, to the point of being unprofessional, but—
“Don’t play coy. Being an architect is more than just being a good designer,” Jerry scolds. “The architect-as-a-master-builder era is dead. You’re expected to be able to sell yourself to people — to clients, to other architects. That’s the entire point of the architectural jury in college. That’s the entire point of nights like this. You have to be able to network. Think about it. How much of an asset is a MMA fighter who goes to a community college going to be to you at a networking function?”
“I don’t actually form relationships with people based on how well they’re going to serve me in networking.”
Jerry flaps a hand at Tom, clearly indicating Tom needs to lower his voice. “Settle down, Tom. I’m telling you this because you’ve got a bright future ahead of you in this field and I want to support that. But it won’t be so bright for you if you insist on slumming it, do you understand?” He pats Tom on the shoulder — actually pats Tom on the shoulder, like he’s being kind, and Jesus, that’s the worst part. Jerry actually thinks he’s being helpful.
As Tom gapes, Jerry looks past him. “Oh, hey, Buchanan! I didn’t know you were going to be here—” he says boisterously, already forgetting Tom as he moves away.
Tom gapes at nothing. And then he’s spurred into motion. He can’t find Tommy, but, shit, he’s probably still talking to Marcus. Tom stalks out to the balcony, goes right up to the balustrade and rests his forearms on it, ready to get a good, long brood session going on. The wind whips at his clothes and his hair; stings his eyes. God, he wishes he’d brought some cigarettes along with him. Tom’s a social smoker and a stress smoker, and this is a fucking stressful social situation.
“You all right?”
Tom jumps; peers into the shadows. Tommy looks back at him, sitting on the edge of a planter box, head tilted. Christ, how long has Tommy been out here? He starts to ask where Marcus and Anna are—
And then he realises they’re still close to the balcony doors, and Tom can hear perfectly the sounds of the party, filtering through. Tommy had probably heard every fucking thing Tom had been saying to Jerry, and vice versa. He stares at Tommy, acutely miserable now.
Tommy shakes his head at Tom’s expression and holds a hand out. Tom goes to him, and Tommy reels him in by the waist when he’s close enough. Has to looks up at Tom since he’s still sitting down, eyes dark in the dim lighting.
“He’s wrong,” Tom say quietly, not bothering to add detail.
“Of course he is,” Tommy says immediately. He even sounds like he believes it, like he thinks Tom is the ridiculous one for trying to comfort him.
Tom squints at him, perplexed.
“They don’t know me,” Tommy says, indicating Jerry, and Ilsa and James, and anyone else who was talking about them. “And they don’t know you, not really. You gonna let your boss tell you how to live your life, Hansen?”
Tom smiles. And there he is; there’s his Tommy. The Tommy that openly admits he has a boyfriend, even while competing in the notoriously homophobic UFC. The one that was able to get away from an abusive drunk as a child and then found the strength to go back and face him.
Tommy’s quiet self-assurance here is a complete 180 to the discomfort he’d displayed when he’d actually been speaking to everyone in the party. But he’s not blustering just because no one’s around. Tommy responds to open opposition by pushing back; Jerry would’ve done better, Tom thinks, if he’d just ignored Tommy and let his own insecurities eat away at him.
Tommy’s arm around his waist tightens. “I can hear the gears grinding in your head. Enough.”
Tom laughs. “They were good thoughts. About you.”
“Good thoughts about how I can take this prissy shit off finally?” Tommy’s leer is exaggerated, but suggests it could become real, given the right incentive.
“Only you would call a blazer and a button down prissy,” Tom says, fond. And in the quiet of the balcony, he leans down and kisses Tommy. Drops into his lap before deepening the kiss.
Tom pulls back after they break the kiss. Stares at Tommy solemnly, trying to indicate that what he’s about to say next is serious; important. “You have to tell me,” he starts. Tommy looks up at him, pensive and waiting. Tom takes a deep breath. “You have to tell me who helped you with your clothes, because you sure as hell didn’t manage that yourself.”
A laugh bursts out of Tommy and he says, “You shit. You little shit.”
Tom grins. This is better. This is how they do things. He can make it okay for Tommy to feel vulnerable, and he can make Tommy laugh, even if it’s just over how Tom’s being ridiculous. And Tommy can push at him, encourage him to be daring. Everything else feels insignificant, in the face of that.
It’s not, of course. Their relationship doesn’t exist in a vacuum. So Tom will go back inside later, and Tommy will go with him. Because they’re responsible, nowadays, in their own way. They’ll even do the networking thing, in their own way.
But there’s no harm in spending a few minutes playing hooky.