Chapter Text
Tom wants to think he wasn't always like this.
That maybe, the anger that has settled deep into his bones, was just a by product of the shitty life he's lived. A misunderstood teenager, wrecked with grief, who grew into an unbearable adult with more emtional issues than he could count.
He could blame it on that. On all the sleepless nights spent tearfully clutching old keep sakes of his parents'. Or the foster homes; and their raised hands, and insults spat through barred teeth. And the scars that have long since healed over, their lingering pink hue that leaves a bad taste in his mouth like an off brand whiskey.
Something in the back of his mind echoes with the all the characters in the comic books Edd reads. The brooding heroes, who, despite their anger, and their less than friendly dispositions, still manage to save the day. But, even at their worst, they always have some redeeming quality to latch onto. Anything that hints to the readers that— hey, maybe this guy isn't as shitty as he first appeared! Maybe he'll get better!
Edd told him, he doesn't quite remember when— the soft fuzz of alcohol blurs the memory whenever he tries to recall it —that he thought Tom had that quality in him. Somewhere, beneath the stench of vodka and shitty cologne, he was a really good person.
He doesn't think he can believe that anymore.
Rain falls from dark clouds like its being poured from fucking buckets. The constant drum of water slapping against concrete makes his head want to explode.
He's drenched in it. Clothes sticking to his skin and making him feel far too heavy. His knuckles are bloody, and they ache. Yet he reels his fist back to clock the guy beneath him again, and again. He won't stop. Not until the scorching anger dancing underneath his skin decides he is.
The poor bar-goer beneath Tom shouts when his fist comes into contact with his face again. This time, the man's nose cracks upon impact, the blood already dripping from his nostril. He doesn't even remember what provoked this. The only thought he can make out through the haze is that, whatever it was, he probably deserves it.
"Get the fuck off me!" He shouts, clawing at the hand Tom has balled into a fist, gripping the man's shirt collar. The man's grip is strong enough to break skin and blood trickles down his arms, but the rain washes it away. His face unrecognizable with how bloodied and bruised he is.
Tom doesn't respond, too focused on the rhythmic motions as he goes in for another punch and—
Someone catches his wrist mid-swing, and yanks Tom off him.
A third person, drags him away. The motion makes the alcohol in his stomach swirl and he fights back the urge to vomit.
The world comes and goes for the next while. He doesn't remember much.
A uniform. Metal clinking around his wrists. Words too long and funny sounding for him to understand.
Someone offers him a phone call. He wants to call Edd and Matt. Even if it's just to hear their voices. But he knows there will be questions, and Tom is so tired of answering questions tonight.
He's taken to a room, not his room, Tom might add, but he sleeps there anyway.
He sleeps, but he doesn't dream.
A harsh, metallic knocking has Tom stirring. Not quite awake, he's hesitant to do so as he can already feel the migrane drumming in his skull. A shocker, but it's not quite how he wants to start his morning.
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG
"I get it!" Tom grunts, "Give me a damn minute."
It's a fight, trying to resist the urge to turn away from the noise and go back to sleep until he feels like being a person again. But he knows he'll feel at least a little guilty for ignoring Edd and Matt. Especially after all the trouble they must've went through dragging him home last night, at least that's what he assumes happened since he doesn't remember anything between rousing the bartender for another round, and now.
Moving, as Tom finds, is it's own kind of beast. He keeps his eyes clamped firmly shut, still not ready to face the world and the throbbing headache that he knows will come with it. Nausea hides just beneath the surface, not as bad as it could be, but ready to rear its ugly head at any moment. He clutches his stomach in anticipation of it, but quickly draws his hand back when he finds that it hurts. Pain travels up from his knuckles, to his wrists, and he curses. Finally opening his eyes to check the source, Tom quickly finds that to be the least of his problems.
An officer stands on the outside of the jail cell he's in. He glowers at Tom with a certain kind of hatred, the petty kind that comes with dealing with too much bullshit far later than he was supposed to.
"Thompson," His voice has got an angry sort of gravel to it. "Lawyers offices are open now, you still want that phone call?"
It takes a while for Tom to answer. Still spiraling as he desperately combs through his drunken selfs memories for what the fuck he could've done last night to end up here. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Sure he's had a few close calls, been thrown out of some bars after a few too many, and maybe passed out where he shouldn't have, but never anything that would warrant the glare he's getting right now.
But he comes up with nothing. He can't remember a thing, and trying too hard to has him gripping his head. Oh he's so screwed.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll uh— I'll take the call." Tom forces himself to nod. Part of him really wishes he hadn't just agreed to it, but he's already got a number in mind as the officer unlocks the door to his cell and steps inside.
"Stand," The officer commands, and Tom feels he has little option but to follow.
He pushes himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as his joints pop, and all the fun, mysterious injuries from last night ache in protest. Maybe there was a reason people stopped getting into this sort of trouble after their twenties, it fucking hurt.
Handcuffs click around his wrists. The feeling of cold metal against his skin, has him shuddering.
The officer leads him out of the cell. Three others surround the one he'd been in— two on the opposite wall and one beside it — only one of them is occupied. Laying on a small cot, the cell's resident only turns to face the wall when they walk by.
He squints as the officer takes him into a much brighter room. Sunlight assaults his eyes as it beams through the large windows by the door. The entrance to the police station, then.
Outside Tom can see the world going by in it's usual, nauseating blur. The concrete is still wet with the downpour from last night, and the sight of it makes him realize how wet his clothes still feel against his skin. And he makes the mental note, when— or 'if' if he wants to be a pessimistic prick about it, which he is for most things —he gets home he should toss these in the dryer. Maybe give them a good wash before to get the smell of alcohol out of them as well.
There's a phone hung up on the wall, tucked away in a small corner. The officer stops and stands at the entrance to it and he quickly sees why it's been placed where it is, because he takes up the entire hall. There's no getting out of here no matter how hard he tries.
With a sigh, Tom awkwardly fumbles with the phone while in his cuffs. One hand gripping the actual phone while the other goes to dial a number he doesn't even have to think of before he punches it in.
He tucks it between his ear and his shoulder as it starts to ring. Once. Twice. Then,
"'Ello?" Edd greets from the other end. Though it's not as chiper as he's used to, he can't exactly blame him though. This is the first he's spoken to his roommate since he left for the bars late last night.
"Uh, hey Edd." Tom says, almost sheepish as he glances at the officer behind him. Bile is starting to crawl up his throat again. Fuck, he's calling Edd to tell him he's at the station and he doesn't even realize why he's here.
"Tom! Oh my God, Matt and I have been calling your phone all night, where the hell were you?" He sounds like he wants to be angry, but hints of concern rise in his voice the more he goes on. "No. Scratch that, where are you right now? Matt's at work, but I stayed behind just in case you came home."
Sucking a breath through his teeth, Tom forces himself to laugh. Thinking maybe it will placate what he's about to say. "Funny story actually, I uh, I might be at the police station?"
"You might be? You either are or you aren't, Tom." There's still that hint of worry. He bets Edd thinks maybe something happened to him, always seeing the best in people and all that bullshit. It's a quality he can't help but both admire and be annoyed by.
(Distantly, that bitter little voice in Tom's head reminds him of what happened last time he saw the best in someone who clearly didn't deserve it.
He's still spending paychecks to replace what he lost in that damn explosion.)
"I am." Tom replies, biting the inside of his cheek.
On the other side if the phone, he can hear footsteps, keys jingling, the front door slams shut. It makes Tom's heart warm a little, how quickly the other man is on his feet to come get him.
"Here—" He can hear the phone jostle around in Edd's hands. "I've got you on speaker. I'm already in the car, tell me what happened. Are you hurt?"
He digs his teeth harder into the inside of his cheek. Hesitant to answer, as he looks down at himself to double check that there isn't a stab wound he might've missed in his early morning haze.
But no, the only pain he feels is the lingering nausea in his stomach, a migrane pounding behind his eyes like a jackhammer, and the cuts that litter his hands. "Nah, just a couple scratches here and there. Nothing to plan a funeral about."
The line goes quiet. Tom glances at the phone to check if he's been disconnected. When everything seems to be working just fine, he realized Edd is waiting for an explanation. He wants to know what happened, and Tom does as well, but the memories slip through his fingers like grains of sand whenever he tries to recall them.
So, slowly, Tom turns towards the officer still blocking the hallway. Angling the phone away from his face slightly, he asks, "What am I even in here for?"
The glare he receives in response has him thinking it wasn't anything good.
"Public intoxication, resisting arrest, and assault." The officer names them off with a bite in his tone. That explains the look he's been giving him at least. "Poor bastard is still in the emergency room deciding if he wants to press charges."
Emergency room?
Something in Tom's chest drops at that. He's been in his fair share of bar fights before, both on the winning and losing side. More often than not though he was pulled away before any significant damage could be done. Any injuries were the kind that you could doctor by ordering another round and praying the first aid kit in the bathroom still had supplies inside. What had he done to send the poor bastard to the emergency room?
(And what did he say to Tom to illicit such a reaction?)
Tom glances back at the phone. He needs to tell Edd. He has to. This doesn't feel like the kind of thing that he can just get away with with a few fines and some community service. Fuck, he's really done it this time, hasn't he? At the very least there will be a heafty bail to pay, if they even give him that option at all.
"Alright." He nods towards the officer. Tucking the phone back under his ear, the words are reluctant to form, but he forces them to anyway.
"I got into a fight at the bar. From what they're saying the other guy is in the hospital." Tom says, tone flat to hide the shame pooling in his gut. The admission makes his mouth taste bitter. "I've got— I've got some charges. I don't think they're just gonna let me out of here, Edd. Not without—"
"Stop talking." Edd cuts him off and the concern in his tone is long gone. It makes Tom flinch. "Oh my god, Tom, stop talking right now. You know I thought you died right? Tripped over your own shoes into the middle of the road or something and fucking died. Do you know how awful of a feeling that is? To just sit and wait, and try not to mourn you?"
He wants to say something. To say he gets it, he knows what it's like. To bitterly spit back that at least Edd heard back from him, that was more than Tom ever got. But his mouth is dry, and the only microcosm of common sense he's got left keeps his mouth clamped shut.
"Did you even have a reason for it? Give me this one thing, Tom." He can't hear the car running on the other side of the phone anymore. He can picture it, Edd pulled over on the side of the road, gripping the steering wheel. Something thuds, and he imagines it's his head resting against the dash.
The line goes quiet again. He doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to say he can't even remember he did anything last night, let alone the how's or why's. He was plastered. But he's always some level of drunk, so it's not exactly an excuse he can use. "I— I don't know."
"Of course you don't." And all at once, the low bubbling bitterness he's sure Edd has tried so hard to keep down overflows. "Do you even know how many times I've stuck out my neck for you? I make up the missing rent when you're too hung over to go to work. Carried you home from god knows how many bars after you drank yourself half to death. All the bullshit you've put Matt and I through and I still wanted to think that maybe…just maybe there was some good in you there. After— After Tord I really thought you had it in you. You saved our lives man. But I'm starting to think the only reason you shot down that fucking robot wasn't because you cared about what happened to us. You just wanted to see something you hate die."
That name. That fucking name, turns his grip so hard he might break the phone."Edd I'm sorry— I—"
"No, Tom! There is no 'sorry' anymore, not for me. You wanna apologize? Tell it to guy you sent to the fucking hospital last night." Edd spits. It feels like a knife is jamming into Tom's chest the more he talks. Because he is sorry. He's so fucking sorry. He didn't know. How was he supposed to? No one told him that the bitterness was this deep, this long running. If Edd had only just told him all this before he would've— He would've—
"I'm done picking up after your messes. This time, deal with the shit you've done on your own." Why is Edd saying it like that? Like this is some kind of send off ? No, no he can convince him. He'll do better this time. He will. "Goodbye, Tom."
"Edd, wait—!"
The phone line disconnects without another word.
The officer must hear it, because before he knows it he's being dragged back to his holding cell. He doesn't fight. He doesn't kick, and scream like he so desperately wants to. The door was right there, he could've made it.
But he just can't get himself to do anything.
When the cell door locks shut and the officer walks away, all Tom can do is stare at the floor. Rerunning Edd's words in his head like broken record.
He sits like that for hours. At least until it sinks in that no one's coming for him.
Edd wasn't kidding, he's really gonna have to stay here until what? Court proceedings? There's no way in hell he'll be found not guilty in a court of law. He did it. Everybody knows it.
He knows he can't afford whatever bail they've put up for him. He hardly had enough money for his share of the rent this month.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Maybe Edd will reconsider. Yeah, he'll— he'll realize this was all a mistake. A misunderstanding. They've been friends since they were kids, he can't just drop Tom like that.
Right?
.
.
.
He's starting to think he already knows the answer.
Tom turns over on his cot. Grimacing at how he aches at the thought of another night on it. But when the floor doesn't seem anymore promising, he reluctantly shuts his eyes. Hoping that maybe he'll get to wake up from his soon. And he'll get up, and he'll tell Edd and Matt he's so so sorry for all the bullshit he's put them through over the years, all Christmas Carol like.
But for right now he just wants to sleep the rest of his hangover away. And if a few tears prick the corners of his eyes that's for him and him alone to know.
CLANG CLANG CLANG
"Thompson! You've got company!" The officer's voice grates his ears.
Sleep still sticks to Tom as he stirs, but once the words process he's pushing himself up to his feet.
Company? For him? He's already stumbling over himself as he stands to attention. He knew it. He fucking knew Edd wouldn't just leave him high and dry like that. After everything they've been together.
He just wanted to scare Tom is all, the prick. Well it worked, he's seen his three ghosts, he'll repent if that's what Edd really wants. He'll do anything the man asks of him if it mean he gets to sleep in a warm bed tonight, back with the only people he's ever actually considered family.
He's never been more happy to have handcuffs snapping around his wrists. The officer leads him back out to the front of the station and Tom nearly wants to cry when he sees a flash of brown hair as he rounds the corner.
But he stills when the person it belongs to isn't one he recognizes.
Neither of the men at the front desk are faces he knows. The first one, the one he almost mistook for Edd were it not for his clothes— a pink zip-up jacket, black t-shirt, and jeans. —and the fact he must be at least a head taller than Tom. His brown hair is split down the middle, neatly styled compared to Edd's usual bed head. As for the second, he's dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt, a yellow hoodie tied around his waist. Bushy brows furrow as he watches the first man fill out some paper work at the front desk. When his eyes meet Tom's he nudges the other man, gesturing towards him.
Recognition washes over their faces, and it makes a shiver run down his spine.
The officer beside him grunts, and, much to Tom's surprise— and the officer's reluctance—undoes his handcuffs. "It's your lucky day Thompson, you already got your bail paid."
What.
What?
He rubs at his wrists, before the men who somehow seem to know him start walking over towards him.
And Tom has to resist the urge to sprint towards the door. He can do that if he wants to, right? He's free to go. No one said he has to go with them—
But before he can make up his mind about it they're already in front of him. Wearing warm smiles. The guy with the neat hair, is throwing his arm around Tom's shoulders, laughing even though no one's said anything.
"Go out drinking without us one time and see where it's gotten you?" The man barks, pulling Tom into an awkward half-hug. "You're lucky we had some extra money in our savings because—" He whistles out a low tune. "— It wasn't cheap getting you out, but Paul and I aren't just gonna let our little brother rot in a cell."
Tom tenses in the man’s grip. Little brother? What the hell were these two talking about? There was only one other person in the holding cells with him, did the officer grab the wrong person by mistake? He goes to rip himself from the man's grip, but before he can do so the second guy— Paul — places a stern hand on his shoulder, shooting Tom a Look.
"That's right, Pat." He says flatly.
Why is he the one getting a Look right now?? He doesn't know these people. Right?
Sure he's had plenty of foster families in his time. More than he could count, but even when he files through his mental index the names Paul and Pat aren't ones he recognizes.
Paul turns towards the officer and nods his head towards him. "Sorry for the trouble, officer. We'll make sure it doesn't happen again."
Pat does the same, tightening his grip around Tom's shoulders as the pair start to lead him towards the exit. "C'mon, Toms, lets get you back home."
No. No there was something wrong with these two. He doesn't know these guys. Tom wants to scream, but if he does, and whatever cover these two have going is blown they wouldn't take him back into custody, would they?
The door to the station is opened, and the cool air hits him. For a second, he's almost relieved.
Maybe, he'll just wait until these two take him a bit further from the station and book it. Tom thinks, eyes darting around the darkened street, lit up only by the occasional lamppost. Until something hard presses up against his back.
Tom's eyes go wide, and he wants to freeze, but the two men keep pushing him forward.
"Don't make a sound." Pat says through a smile that now looks all too forced. "Just keep walking, and you'll make both our lives a whole lot easier."
Glancing behind him, Tom can see Pat's hand stuck in his pocket, but the unmistakable silhouette of a gun in his hand is hard to miss.
As they keep walking, Tom's heart drops when he realizes they're making a beeline for a large, black van. He can get out of this, can't he? What's the thing they taught him in school? If someone is trying to shoot you, run in a zigzag pattern so you're harder to shoot?
Tom looks towards Pat, and for some reason, he gets the feeling that even if he tries that, the man won't miss his shot.
Paul opens the van doors, and gives Tom a pat on the back as Pat shoves him inside. The doors slam shut behind him. When he tries to open them back up, he finds they're child locked. Damn it.
On the outside, he can faintly hear Paul and Pat's voices. "Yes. We've got him, sir. ETA should be about six hours given that little brother doesn't put up a fight."
'Sir.' They're talking to someone. Some kind of higher up. But who the hell in any kind of position of power would want Tom? Sure he's pissed off a lot, a lot of people in his life— even the ones he thought would stick with him until the end. Tom thinks bitterly.— but those people would be more than happy to just let him rot in jail. So what was the hell was these guys' angle? Jail obviously wasn't a worse enough fate for them so what? Kill him? Drive six hours to the most secluded part of town just to put him down? He doesn't think he's worth all that trouble.
He's taken out of his thoughts when the driver and passenger doors open. Paul gets in the passenger seat, and Pat in the driver seat before the van is starting.
There's a dividing wall between where Tom and the two men are. Sort of like how he vaguely remembers the police cruiser being last night. He pounds his fist against the wall.
"Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are?" He spits. "People are gonna come looking for me!"
In front of him, one of the men snickers. "That right?" Paul asks, voice muffled through the dividing wall. "'Cause last we heard your only support left you to rot in that cell." He says, no heat in his voice. Just simply stating a fact. And Tom hates it.
He slams his fist against the wall hard enough to reopen the wounds from last night. Blood trickles down his hands. "Fuck you! You don't know shit!"
"Whatever makes you feel better, lillebror." Pat hums from the driver seat, the slight accent in his voice apparent at that last word.
Tom's blood runs cold. He's heard an accent like that before. Tried so hard to block it from every memory it infests.
"Who are you?" He asks again, voice wavering.
"Hm? Oh, did he never tell you about us?" Pat says coyly.
"We're Tord's brothers."