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It was not supposed to go like this.
Tommy is stretched out on a– too stiff, too crinkly, too small– ER cot. The lights dimmed to help ease the blooming headache radiating from the soon-to-be beautifully colored goose's egg on his forehead. He winces as he presses an ice pack to it and tries to settle enough to maybe get a little rest, before the storm rolls in along with his emergency contact he is certain the nurse called regardless of his insistence that he was fine; reflecting on the series of unfortunate events that led him to this moment…
…and how it is actually one hundred percent Sal fucking Deluca’s fault.
***
Sal was the one who insisted on meeting up at Miceli's for lunch. (Tommy had hesitated. Sal had pushed. Tommy eventually– reluctantly conceded.)
He told Evan where they were going, of course, and was met with panic and begged instructions to at least try not to mention their relationship inside the restaurant… of course. Just in case.
It proved easy enough to begin with. Sal spent the better part of lunch going on and on about his own problems. Mostly work, work… and more about work…
“You’re the one who wanted that captain’s hat,” Tommy teased, and Sal grumbled in agreement, but added how he didn’t know it would come with an entire brand new station and a group of young untrained knuckleheads Simpson expected him to whip into shape. Tommy’s clearly drawn to yappers, and once Sal was done unloading about work, he was on to women and relationships– or more so his lack of either…
Tommy bit his tongue on how he’d had a full blown in depth conversation with Evan about how Sal and Eddie were both so bad in relationships with women, they should set them up with each other– a conversation for another time. Except his silence on the matter gave leeway for Sal to pivot the direction of the conversation.
He smirked at Tommy and asked, “So what about you? How are things with the kid?”
Tommy nearly choked on his pizza. “Jesus Sal, don’t call him a– He isn’t even that young!”
Sal shrugged. “Young… Childish… Same thing.” Tommy could feel his glare intensifying and Sal only laughed at it. “Come on, T… Mummy cowboy funeral–”
Tommy hummed, knew he should have never told Sal about that.
“–and how long did you say it’s been since you’ve been here?”
Tommy didn’t answer, which was all the answer Sal needed to throw his head back and laugh harder.
“He’s not childish,” Tommy grumbled defensively, rolling his eyes and bringing his beer up. “He’s just… superstitious, and in his defense we have had problems every time we come here.”
“Can’t make up a curse to blame for bad communication, T.”
Tommy couldn’t roll his eyes harder if he tried!
“Shut up,” was the best comeback he could think of on the spot, then Sal’s victorious smirk proved him wrong and successfully made him roll his eyes harder. “All that matters is that everything worked out. Life is good. It’s been quiet–”
If Tommy was –like Evan– a superstitious man (which he’s not), he might have gotten a little concerned with how the sound inside the restaurant seemed to fade to silence in that exact moment. Sal’s eyebrows slowly raised up his forehead and his smirk widened; dramatically, mischievously…
“Uh oh…” he drew out slowly, and it was like they were back in the 118 with Hen and Howie insisting a single word could doom them all to a shift from hell.
“Don’t start,” Tommy sighed.
“You better not tell the kid–”
“He’s not a–”
“The hubby–”
“I swear to God, Sal…”
“I’m not the one who said the q-word.”
Tommy glared at him, and waved down their waitress for the bill, and it should have ended there.
It should have…
***
When Tommy got home he was pretty sure the house smelled like sage and garlic; he wondered, if he moved the welcome mat, would he find another pentagram? Maybe suggesting Supernatural as their newest binge show had been a bad idea… He could only imagine the level of bad juju ridding rituals that had been completed during his time out.
He searched the house until he found Evan out in the garage, sweat glistening on exposed skin, in Tommy’s personal favorite workout gear… and suddenly the past hour of Sal and his bullshit was forgotten. At least until they were getting ready for bed.
If Tommy was– like Evan– a superstitious man (which he’s not), he might have been concerned when, of all the things Evan could talk about, his boyfriend chose to spend their pre-sleep cuddle time talking about the last time a co-worker cursed the station with the q-word. Tommy’s fingers stalled their ministration through Evan’s curls, as he listened to the string of bad luck that followed.
“So how was lunch with Sal,” Evan asked, abruptly concluding his story, and turning to look at Tommy with wide curious eyes.
A big stipulation they had when they resumed their relationship: no more secrets.
“It was good,” Tommy replied, because surely this was not what that stipulation entailed… right?
Evan smiled and kissed him. “That’s good,” he said and they went to sleep.
***
The next morning Tommy missed his alarm.
He nicked his cleft– his cleft – while shaving, lost the post-it with the number a guy he knew gave him to call about a last minute reservation for an upcoming date with Evan, and forgot to grab his charger before he finally made it out the door.
Had Tommy been– like Evan– a superstitious man (he really wasn’t) he might have been a little worried when the string of annoying, quickly becoming pretty crappy luck only continued as the day went on.
He got a nail in his brand new tire, taking a shortcut. He snagged a hole into his favorite henley, rushing to get changed into his uniform. He got devastating news from Evan about his hair appointment… His barber was out sick, and the kid who replaced him for the day butchered the wispy tufts he used as a grounding measure– running his fingers through them at night to help him fall asleep…
“You’re just being dramatic, T,” Sal laughed into the receiver, when Tommy called him in admittedly a bit of a panic. He could have talked to Evan. Maybe he should have talked to Evan, but there was no use in getting him more upset, Tommy rationalized.
“It’s just– It’s weird… right?” Tommy said to Sal instead. “I say… what I said, and now–”
He was cut off by the sound of Sal quite literally dying of laughter over the phone.
“Come on, Tommy…” he said. “You can’t seriously think you’re cursed because you said–”
“Aht…” Tommy quickly interjected, and Sal wheezed. “Shut up,” he added with a sigh, because Sal was right. He was being ridiculous… and everything was going to be fine. Right?
Wrong.
It was like the universe was screaming at him. A black cat crossed in front of the engine. Open ladders and breakable mirrors were suddenly everywhere… and he had seen the number thirteen enough times he refused to believe it was a coincidence.
So… even though he was not– like Evan– a superstitious man (not really anyway), he figured there was no harm in trying to balance out the bad luck with some good. It wasn’t long before he had collected enough on head pennies to start a collection, had knocked on every piece of wood he could find, and even though his mother had long since passed, he began avoiding cracks like the plague.
“Is everything okay?” Evan asked, sounding very confused and concerned when Tommy called to ask what shoulder he was supposed to throw salt over when he spilled some making a sandwich. He could just do both… that might cancel out the effect though…
“Uh, yeah,” Tommy quickly replied. “I was just– or… Lucy was just curious.” He ignored the way Lucy glanced up from her own lunch. “Anyway…” he continued before she could question him. “The shoulder?”
Then came the call.
A wellness check at some old decrepit house that seemed much more fit for the 118 to be called to, but alas the 217 was sent instead. The door was already open when they arrived, and Tommy pushed it further in, stepped through and let out a whistle at the stench he was hit with.
He froze.
He looked down at his foot– his left foot… Then realized he had whistled once he was technically inside. A very classic, very specific superstition he had just enacted to completion.
Which, of course, Tommy wasn’t– like Evan– a superstitious man (well–), or he might have panicked at this moment. He might have back peddled away from the door, turned and attempted to flee from the house and all the bad vibes he was getting from it.
He even might have been in such a hurry that he completely missed the last step, tumbled over his own feet and took a decorative– yet very real and solid– boulder to the head.
Maybe he’s a little like Evan after all…
***
The sound of his room’s door sliding open brings him back to the excruciating headache and double vision of the present. Evan walks in the room looking more concerned than Tommy thinks the situation calls for– with how ridiculous it is– and he sighs.
“I can explain,” he says, and he does, tears from embarrassment prickling the corners of his eyes by the end.
“Sweetheart!” Evan coos, cupping Tommy’s cheek and leaning down to kiss his lips, the tip of his nose, and then his forehead– being mindful of the knot of course. “Why didn’t you come to me before–” he gestures at the room, and laughs, “–before this!”
“Then you would have been the one spiralling…”
Evan laughs again. “Uh, yeah… You– You may be right… I still don’t want you to ever think you have to shoulder anything alone. We’re in this together, remember? We promised… no secrets.”
Tommy reaches up and holds onto the wrist of the hand still caressing his cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He pulls the hands from his face and presses a kiss to the palm before lacing their fingers together. “No more secrets.”
Evan sits with him until Tommy starts to nod off. Then he steps outside to let everyone know Tommy is okay. As Tommy listens to Evan’s voice muffled outside the sliding glass door, three things cross his mind: he’s not superstitious, but he’s a little stitious (Michael Scott– The Office); he can 100% hear Evan on the phone with either Howie or Hen, asking something about the amount of times he is supposed to rotate his arms while ringing bells; and lastly he thinks he might want to marry this man someday… he just has to wait for the moment he can propose without Evan blaming it on the concussion (or the jinx) talking.