Chapter Text
When Tom was 17, he hit a coyote while driving home from a date.
He hadn’t been paying attention; he was distracted, it was dark, and they were in a wooded area, and suddenly Tom had felt an unpleasant ‘thunk’.
He had braked, hard, and swerved to the side of the road, his heart pounding a little bit in his chest. His date - he can’t remember her name, but he thinks it might have been Laura - had gasped and looked at him, wide-eyed.
“What was that?”
“Not sure. Hang on,” Tom replied, already partway out of the car.
There, on the ground, was a coyote, skull partially crushed, legs splayed at odd angles, skin partially torn off. It wasn’t fully dead; its legs kept twitching, and Tom could hear its ragged gasps as it tried to breathe. He felt his stomach turn.
He couldn’t just leave it here, on the road, in pain. He couldn’t save it either.
A little dazed, he walked behind the car, popped the trunk and considered its contents. His eyes landed on the tire change kit. He took a deep breath, tried to quell the nausea rising in his stomach, and grabbed the crowbar.
Stepping back to the coyote, he lined up the bar and took his aim. He wanted to be sure this was as quick as possible.
He swung the bar, once, twice, three times in quick succession.
Laura’s eyes were wide as she watched him get back in the car. “It was a coyote,” he said, trying to sound reassuring and definitely failing. “Poor guy was still alive. I didn’t want him to suffer.”
Laura nodded without saying anything, and they pulled back onto the road.
Tom didn’t notice the flecks of blood on his pants until later, when he was getting ready for bed. He remembers feeling a bit sick when he saw them. He remembers trying to pick the dried flecks off like scabs. He remembers eventually just stuffing the pants in a garbage can, knowing he’d never want to wear them again anyways.
Thank God, Tom thinks, glancing down at himself, that there isn’t any blood this time, and as he finishes the thought he feels his face twist in a wry smile, and he chokes back a laugh that threatens to spill out of him. He’s standing in his office, holding some award he got for something related to ATN awkwardly in his right hand, almost like a club. He doesn’t remember what the award was for, but he does remember dragging Greg into his office for a celebratory drink afterwards.
On the floor in front of him is Logan. His limbs are splayed out, and his head is twisted at an unnatural angle. Tom thinks he can see a bruise developing on his neck, but maybe that’s his imagination.
He doesn’t know if he’s dead. Well - he hasn’t checked his pulse. He is, in fact, pretty sure that Logan must be dead, because in general the necks of the living aren’t supposed to twist that way.
Tom places the award back on his desk with an almost exaggerated care, and crouches down to check Logan’s pulse anyways. There’s definitely nothing. He pulls his hand away but stays there, crouching over Logan, trying to process what must have happened. He can’t, at this specific moment, recall what he was doing when Logan came in, or any of the events leading up to him lying on the floor. He thinks that maybe if he stays here long enough it’ll have to start coming back to him.
That’s when he hears a rustle behind him - soft, but noticeable in the otherwise silent office. Tom whips around, his heart in his throat, and -
It’s Greg. Greg is standing there, at the other end of his office. Tom’s never seen him look so utterly, deathly pale. His hands are half raised, like he’s ready to either fight someone off or throw them up and surrender, depending on what the situation calls for. He’s also, Tom realizes after a moment, shaking. Quite badly, actually.
“Tom?” His name comes out raspy, like Greg is on the verge of dehydration. Tom stares at him for a moment, trying to put the pieces together in his mind.
He was in here. In his office. Greg was in here too. It was late. Late enough that no one else is on the floor still. Late enough that he could be a bit unguarded. Late enough that -
Tom’s eyes travel up from Greg’s shaking hands, take in the loose tie, the partially unbuttoned shirt, and his lips, red and moist and a little bit swollen. Tom is suddenly keenly aware of his own dishevelled hair, his own loosened tie, and his suit jacket, lying in a crumpled heap on his office floor. His mouth is very dry; he doesn’t remember Logan coming in, doesn’t even really remember what he and Greg were doing - there’s a hole in his memory where that information should be - but he and Greg are both fairly disheveled and Logan is dead on his office floor, and Tom was standing over him holding that stupid award, and Tom is a smart enough guy to connect the dots and figure out what probably happened.
“T-Tom?” Greg says again, even more quietly this time, and Tom realizes he’s been staring at Greg for what must’ve been a full minute. Greg’s eyes are full of fear, and Tom takes a step towards him, instinctively, to try and comfort him - but Greg takes a step back, away from him, and Tom suddenly realizes that Greg is scared of him.
“Woah,” he says softly, holding his hands out placatingly, like Greg is a spooked horse. “Hey. Greg. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He takes another step towards him, and this time Greg stands still. Tom crosses the room over to Greg, and then wraps him in a hug, burying his face in his chest. Greg is tense, and shaking all over, but after a minute he relaxes a tiny bit and wraps his arms against Tom. They stay like that, both breathing heavily, for what feels like an eternity.
Finally, Tom pulls away, looking up into Greg’s face. He’s still deathly pale, and he still looks fearful as he meets Tom’s gaze. He clears his throat.
“Hey, uh, Tom?” He says, hesitantly. Then he pauses, looking unsure of how to continue. Eventually, he says: “What…. What the fuck?”
Tom can’t help himself and bursts out laughing, full belly laughs with a slight twinge of hysteria to them. Logan is dead on his office floor, Greg just watched Tom kill him, probably, and all Greg, in his magnificent eloquence, can say, is “What the fuck?”
What the fuck, indeed.
“Uh, Tom? Hey- hey Tom?” Greg’s got a slightly panicky look in his eyes as he grabs Tom’s shoulders.
“Sorry, sorry,” Tom says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. He lets out a sigh, and looks back up at Greg.
Greg licks his lips, nervously. He glances at Logan, then glances back at Tom. “What, uh… do you know what… what the normal course of action… or the proper course of action, I suppose… might be in this, this sort of… situation?” His voice is a little bit shaky as he speaks. Tom turns to look at Logan’s body, gears beginning to turn in his brain. Then he looks back at Greg.
“Sit,” he says firmly, pointing to the couch, and Greg does without hesitation. Greg’s eyes follow him, wide and unblinking, as Tom walks over to the bar cart in his office and pours three fingers of good scotch. He walks back to Greg and passes it to him; Greg takes it, hesitantly, in both hands.
“Drink,” Tom says, still firm, and then his voice softens as he squeezes Greg’s shoulder. “I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back. Just… sit and drink, okay?”
Greg nods, hesitantly, and then lifts the glass to his mouth with both hands and takes a sip. It looks almost comical, and Tom would laugh if there weren’t bigger things to deal with right now.
Tom walks back to Logan, his mind clearer, a plan falling into place. He hooks his arms under Logan’s shoulders and starts to drag him out of the office.
“Heavy fucking bastard”, he mutters under his breath. Greg watches him go, eyes wide, both hands still on his glass of scotch.
Despite its height, the Waystar building does have stairs all the way up for fire safety reasons. Most of them are back hallway fire escapes, but a few floors - including the top three executive floors - have central staircases, mostly used for photo ops. Thankfully, it’s not too far to get from Tom’s office to the staircase; dragging Logan’s bulk takes him about ten minutes. Tom thanks whatever deity there may be that Waystar doesn’t put cameras on the executive floor; Logan likes his “privacy”, and so do the rest of the C-suite. The janitorial staff, too, is gone for the night, so there’s little risk of interruption.
Tom reaches the stairs and pauses at the top, panting from the exertion. Then, he picks Logan up as best he can, and heaves him down the stairs.
He watches Logan fall, tumbling down one step after another, landing in a heap at the bottom. He thinks he sees some blood pooling by his head, but he doesn’t go down to check.
He walks back to his office. Greg has finished the glass of scotch but doesn’t look any less anxious and panicky. Tom walks over, grabs the bottle and another glass, and sits next to Greg on the couch. He pours Greg a refill and pours three fingers for himself. He takes a long swig before he says:
“Greg, I think… I think that Logan may have fallen down the stairs.”
He glances at Greg out of the corner of his eye. His brow furrows for a second, and then realization dawns on his face. He nods, slowly.
“Should, uh… Should we, maybe, call someone?”
Tom shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s possible, because I don’t think we saw him on our way out of the building. After all, the stairs are in the opposite direction of the elevator.”
Greg nods again. He looks down in his glass for a minute, then says, nervously, without looking up, “Do you think there may be some kind of… I don’t know, uh…”
“Investigation?” Tom prompts. “Old men fall down the stairs all the time, Greg, it’s not exactly a shocking whodunnit. ‘Oh, what on earth could have caused this 80-year-old man with balance issues who’s had two strokes to suddenly fall down this giant set of stairs in the middle of the floor?’” Tom throws back the rest of his drink and puts the glass back on the coffee table. Greg follows suit.
They sit there for a second. Tom can feel the anxiety radiating off of Greg. His throat tightens. He wants to say something comforting, put a hand on his arm or hug him or something, but he’s pretty sure that it’s his presence that’s making Greg jittery and it’ll only make things worse. He feels a brief stab of something in his chest, but he pushes it down. He doesn’t have it in him to deal with this right now. He needs to get home, where he has privacy and space to think and process and figure out the next moves.
He stands up briskly, walks over to pick his jacket up off the floor.
“Right, well, I think I’m gonna head out Greg. You coming?” He says, a little too loudly to sound natural. Greg nods and gets up to follow him.
They walk in silence to the elevator and maintain the silence all the way down to the lobby. Tom nods at building security on his way out, and the two of them step out into the brisk night air. Tom pulls out his phone to text for a car; once he knows it’s en route, he glances at Greg. Greg still looks unsettled, and Tom is torn between his own anxiety and a desperate desire for Greg to not look like that.
“You gonna be okay, buddy?” He asks, voice uncharacteristically soft. Greg glances sideways at him and nods.
“Yeah, uh, yup. Just, totally peachy. Totally normal. Nothing, uh… nothing to worry about here,” he says with false bravado, his own phone out to call for an Uber. Tom knows it’s an act. Greg is making nonsense noises under his breath, which is what he does when he’s overwhelmed but trying to act casual. Tom can see him chewing the inside of his cheek, and he keeps drumming on the back of his phone with his fingers. He’s actively avoiding eye contact with Tom, and as much as Tom wants to force Greg to put words to whatever it is he’s clearly feeling, the car is coming up the street and he knows there’s no way to pry it out of Greg tonight.
“Okay, well,” Tom says, trying not to let any uncertainty break through his voice. “Have a good night then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Greg grunts in acknowledgment, still not looking up. Tom feels a squeeze of panic, but his driver is here, so he walks away and gets in. He sees Greg’s Uber pull up as his driver pulls away from the curb; Tom turns and looks out the back window, watches him get in, watches it turn down the street toward’s Greg’s apartment.
He’s not concerned, really, about Greg ratting him out. There’s no way to do it without exposing the affair, and he knows that Greg has enough hang-ups about his dad to want that to stay buried for as long as possible. But he can’t stop thinking about the fear in Greg’s eyes, the way Greg had stepped away from him, the way Greg’s voice shook. His stomach tightens and he begins to feel sick. It’s not the first time Greg’s been afraid of him; after all, Tom hasn’t always been the kindest or gentlest of bosses, and there’s a reason Greg still flinches reflexively if Tom moves a bit too suddenly. It’s not a part of their history Tom loves, but he’s been working hard to put it behind them, to rebuild Greg’s trust.
This was different. This wasn’t nerves about Tom yelling or pelting him with water bottles; it wasn’t some mindless reflex. This was fear, real and genuine fear, and Tom hates it but can’t stop thinking about it, the terror in his eyes and the shaking in his hands. He can’t help but feel that he’s broken something irreparably. He feels tears start to sting his eyes, and scrubs at his face. Then he stares at his hands, thinking about the weight of the trophy; thinking about Logan’s skin, cold with no pulse; thinking about the weight of his body and the noise he made falling down the stairs. He doesn’t even notice that they’ve arrived at his and Shiv’s apartment until the driver clears his throat.
When he steps into the apartment, all the lights are off. He walks over to the bedroom and glances in; Shiv is asleep under the covers. It’s not that late, but she’s been particularly exhausted recently. Tom is glad that she’s in bed - it’s been a year and two weeks since he sold her out to Logan, and she still hasn’t forgiven him. At this point, Tom doubts she ever will.
He doesn’t blame her for it, not really. For about a month after it happened, Greg had tried to assuage Tom’s guilt, reminding him about the open marriage, and Nate, and the yacht; well-intentioned but missing the mark. And even though Greg’s right - he’s just trying to protect himself, protect his interests - Tom understands why what he did was unforgivable, knows that Shiv’s trust is fragile, that he was supposed to be the safe one.
Still, as much as he doesn’t blame her, the tension between them is unpleasant at the best of times. He knows he should just give up on trying to fix something he knows can’t be repaired, but -
He walks a few feet up the hall and, as quietly as possible, eases the door open. In a crib at the other end of the room is Tabitha, his 3-month-old daughter. The name wasn’t Tom’s choice - Roman, in one of his more vengeful moments, had suggested it to Shiv while Tom was away on a work trip, and by the time Tom got back Shiv had already committed to it. The fact that Tom hadn’t liked it was, in her eyes, a bonus.
Tabitha is sleeping peacefully and doesn’t stir as Tom walks over to the crib. Crouching down, he presses his face against the bars, watching her.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispers. She still doesn’t stir, and as much as Tom wants to hold her, tightly and close, he also doesn’t want to wake her. Slowly, he stands back up and creeps quietly out of the room. As he stands in the hallway, he feels a wave of exhaustion crash down over him. When he slides into bed next to Shiv, he’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow.
***
When Greg gets home, he spends a long moment standing in the kitchen with the lights out.
His heart is still pounding, and he places his hand over his own chest, slightly worried that he might have a heart attack. He knows it’s a ridiculous thought, but once it pops into his head he can’t quite shake it. He feels jittery and numb, all at once. He thinks about rolling a joint, but he’s worried that might somehow make it worse - he doesn’t need any paranoia on top of his current feelings. Instead, he bends over and rests his head on the counter, willing it to somehow steady him.
After what feels like an hour - but, according to his phone, was only a few minutes - he feels marginally steadier. Not calm, not by a long shot, but he feels a little more in control of his limbs. He sucks in a deep breath and turns the light on, and once his eyes have adjusted, he throws his jacket on the counter, pulls a beer out of the fridge and moves to the couch.
He’s not worried about getting caught. He probably should be, but Tom’s plan seems solid enough, and he knows that for every person who might miss Logan there are another five who will be thrilled.
He is worried about what tomorrow’s going to be like. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be normal, how he’s supposed to go in and read memos and sit in a meeting with Tom and the marketing team and listen and be productive. Frankly, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to interact with Tom at all, how he can possibly have normal work conversations - oh, did you see the new numbers? Yeah, Linda wants to boost our marketing in this segment, it feels underrepresented - and not mention that oh, hey, remember when you killed that guy? Logan? Your father-in-law and our kind-of boss? Remember how you picked up that trophy and swung it, and how when it made contact with Logan’s head there was a sound almost like a crunch, and he fell and his neck turned and then he just… ceased to be?
The fact that Tom was so calm about the whole thing (well, aside from the hysterical laughter) is what scares him the most, mostly because it’s Tom. Greg is used to managing his emotions, anticipating his panic, talking him down when he works himself up. And while Greg had glimpsed the momentary panic in his eyes right before it all went down, he can’t get over how in control Tom was. How he had known what to do.
He should feel repulsed. He should be re-evaluating his whole relationship with Tom. He should be thinking about another transfer, to a department where he’ll see Tom once a year at the shareholder meeting. He should not be thinking about how Tom had looked with the trophy in his hand, in control and powerful and dangerous. He should most definitely not be thinking about the look in Tom’s eyes when he had turned around, slightly predatory and… hungry? Greg can’t quite find the right word to describe it.
And he definitely, certainly, absolutely should not be getting turned on right now. There really, really shouldn’t be a tent in his pants. He’s always known he was kind of fucked up, but this is on another level.
Greg sighs a little bit to himself, leans back into the couch, and opens the buckle on his belt.