Chapter Text
2.
It takes Tommy a minute to remember where he is when he wakes. Then a few more to fight down the suffocating panic he feels at being back in the house. Paddy is gone, but at some point he threw an afghan over Tommy and emptied the second bottle of whiskey down the kitchen sink.
The urge to start throwing shit is strong in the face of his hangover. He’d come here needing to finish this. To close the book on the horrors he’d endured in this house. To finally fight back. Yet somehow, even after all these years, Paddy had gotten the drop on him. He has no clue what to do with the man his father has become.
He stumbles out of the house and back onto the “T”, checking into the cheapest motel he can find. He stands under the tepid water in the shower until it runs cold, then falls asleep to the sound of yelling and transactional sex. He takes his bag with him to the diner down the street when his stomach starts growling.
It’s nearly six p.m., but there are still a few empty tables. Tommy eyes the counter, but the men seated there look churlish and nosy. He puts on a scowl and slides into a booth, keeping an eye on the door. A middle aged woman calls him sweetheart and brings him coffee and an omelet, returning only to refill his cup. Tommy watches her work the room, clearly comfortable with the regulars that populate the diner. She brings pie to the kids in the corner, textbooks spread over the table.
Two of the guys at the counter turn in their seats every time the cook comes out front to eyeball Tommy. He’s not stupid, he knows what he looks like. Big and rough usually means dangerous, but all Tommy wants to do is drink his coffee and put off going back to that shit hole motel.
The cook pulls the waitress aside, watching Tommy over her shoulder. She waves him off, but the guy doesn’t retreat to the kitchen. Instead he starts whispering to the men at the counter. Tommy shifts in his seat, feeling boxed in and on display. It’s not a feeling he enjoys. Just as the cook starts around the counter, the front door slams open, drawing attention away from Tommy.
A young man is standing in the doorway, half covered in mud and dripping on the linoleum. He swears under his breath and takes off his helmet, revealing a shock of dark hair.
“Jesus, Arthur, what happened to you?” The woman laughs.
The man, frowns. “Fucking early spring. Cold as shit out there, but somehow it’s wet enough for mud. Damn cement truck blew past me doin’ at least fifty-five, sent up a wall of this shit. Took my bike right out from under me.”
He accepts a towel from the busboy and wipes his shoes before stepping further over the threshold.
The cook points at the floor with his spatula. “You’re cleaning that up.”
“No shit.” Arthur mutters.
When the waitress appears with the coffee pot, Tommy realizes he’s been staring at the new arrival. He nods at his cup, tearing his eyes away from the man. Tommy fiddles with his napkin, only looking up again when Arthur stalks past his table. His dark eyes take in Tommy’s form quickly, one eyebrow rising above the mud line before he disappears into the back room.
The men at the counter seem to have forgotten about Tommy’s hulking presence and he figures now is a good time to slip out. He empties his cup, leaves cash on the table, and shoulders his bag. He’s rounding the corner of the building when a spray of water stops him.
“Sorry, man. Just try’na clean off my bike.” It’s Arthur again, hosing mud off the frame of a beat up twelve speed.
Tommy watches him, unsure of what’s piqued his interest.
“You new around here?” Arthur asks, eyes on the bike.
“Nah,” Tommy shrugs, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.
“You going to be coming back?” Arthur’s eyes flick to Tommy.
“What’s it to you?” Tommy widens his stance.
Arthur shuts off the hose. “Hey, man, I’m not prying. Only I’ve been here all of five minutes and already three different people have mentioned you. Guy like you gets noticed, know what I mean?”
Tommy knows. He knows all too well. “Why should I give a fuck?”
“You shouldn’t. People around here are just bored, you know? They’ll find drama wherever they can.” Arthur holds his hands up as if surrendering. “If you’re planning on coming back around, though, you should come in the evenings, after the dinner rush.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because that’s when my shift starts.” Arthur smirks.
Tommy frowns. What the fuck is this guy on about? Arthur’s smile falters and he clears his throat.
“Nevermind, it was just a thought. There are fewer customers in the evening. Might be more your tempo.”
“You don’t know me.” Tommy spits. Who does this punk think he is? Tommy’s twice his size and this guy doesn’t even blink.
“Nope, I don’t.” Arthur turns the hose on and goes back to the bike. Tommy stands there watching until he remembers he doesn’t care and walks away.
When he gets back to the motel he dry swallows three pills and hopes they’ll keep out the noises from the rooms around him. Right before he falls asleep he thinks about wild, dark hair and dimples.