mayqueen517 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mayqueen517) wrote2011-02-14 10:58 pm
mayqueen517) wrote2011-02-14 10:58 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Rolling In The Deep (Tom Conrad/Andy 'The Butcher' Mrotek) (Rating: PG-15)
Title: Rolling In The Deep
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mayqueen517
Wordcount: 2215
Rating: PG-15-ish
Pairing: Tom Conrad/Andy 'The Butcher' Mrotek
Summary: Something in Tom's chest rolls over, stretching out in welcome, like his cat is finally pleased with him. Butcher's hand slides up to curve around his neck, pulling Tom into a soft kiss.
Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING. THE IDEA IS MY OWN, THE PEOPLE BELONG TO THEMSELVES. TITLE IS FROM THE SONG BY ADELE.
Warnings: None. Unless I should warn for Werecats?
Author's Notes: Many, many thanks tohector_rashbaum for looking this over as always.
"You're gonna get yourself killed if you keep doing this," Tom says when he wakes up. He takes careful stock of himself, sitting up slowly, blinking at the light scratches on his arm and legs. He looks over and watches Butcher stretch languorously, spreading out over the floor easily. He looks like he belongs and Tom hates him in that moment. Tom hates him, hates everything Butcher stands for.
Tom hates the way he wants to touch; run a hand along his side, feeling warm, smooth skin under his fingertips. He wants to press his lips to Butcher's tattoos and to Butcher's own lips. Butcher watches him for a moment, sighing.
"You and I both know that Mike isn't actually that much of an ass," Butcher says, arching off the floor before he collapses back in a pile of limbs, sighing happily. He smacks his lips once, twice, and Tom can't stop staring at him.
"You sure about that?"
"Pretty sure, since he told me to come hang out with you last night."
"And you always do what he tells you, huh?" Tom says, feeling nasty and mean, wanting to cut and hurt and tear. Wanting to do or say anything that'll draw blood. Butcher rolls his eyes though, not rising to the bait.
"Stop being such an ass, Tom. Out of the band doesn't mean out of the Pride," Butcher says, standing. He's naked, they both are, and Tom hates him for the easy way he steps into his jeans, zipping them up. He doesn't button them, walking into the kitchen to start coffee. Tom thinks about the first night spent with the Pride, curled up on the couch, tail swishing in agitation before Sisky had padded over.
He doesn't think about wrestling with Mike, about the way that everything fell into place with a Pride full of cats running around in a too-small apartment. Tom pulls his own clothes on, feeling exposed and angry as he walks into the kitchen, waiting until Butcher's looking at him.
Butcher meets his eyes, calm and waiting, like Tom's fucking prey or something before Tom carefully speaks.
"It does to me," he says softly, waiting until Butcher relaxes and sighs. Tom doesn't know if it's different for werecats, if there's a hierarchy that Tom doesn't know about or something, but something in his gut settles when Butcher sits down. He doesn't think about Mike standing over him, waiting until Tom rolled over; he doesn't like thinking about what that means.
"Tom...I promise you, it's not the same, okay?" Butcher says as Tom sighs. He doesn't think about the rambling conversation where Bill tried to get to the point and Mike tried not to say anything. He doesn't think about Sisky's stricken look or Butcher's pained expression.
He doesn't think about anything as he pulls his coat on, shoving his feet into his flip-flops. Tom grabs his keys, grateful for the cold metal biting into his hand as the coffee-maker beeps behind Butcher.
"But it really kind of is," Tom says, looking at Butcher as he walks out the door. The wind's biting cold, slipping into any little crevice that Tom's left unprotected, but he doesn't notice it. The click of the door echoes in his ears as he walks down, eyes on his feet.
===
"It's been four months, Tom," Jon says softly. Tom looks down at the canisters of film he's gathering, counting and double-checking that he's got all he needs. He doesn't think about not changing, about staying human even though his skin felt like it was coming off.
"Yeah, and?"
"If you wanted. If you wanted to change, I'd sit with you," Jon says finally, voice careful and easy. Tom wants to tell him that he's okay, that nothing's wrong, but he can feel the tension along his spine, like he's spent too long as his cat. It feels like someone's ruffled his fur the wrong way and Tom can hear Jon sigh softly.
"It was just a thought," Jon says as Tom walks into the bathroom, setting up for his own darkroom. Tom meets his eyes, taking in the concern that's in Jon's eyes before he nods and sighs to himself.
"Thanks, Jon."
===
Time passes. It passes faster than Tom anticipates, it always does, but he finds himself not minding so much. Something makes his gut settle when he plays with Ryan, Sean, Max, and Al. Like he's changed; like he could change if he wanted to.
It's been eight months since he last changed. Eight months since padding around the apartment, being able to settle and feel like, for once, things were going to be okay. Tom lets himself relax, lets himself take up any sunny spot that happens to come across the living room floor.
It feels better than before, like accepting the way things are, and when he finally changes, it feels like coming home.
He spends the night padding around the apartment, rubbing his cheek over anything he can find. Sean catches him rubbing his cheek over his guitar and laughs, making Tom stretch and pad over, rubbing his cheek against Sean's fingertips. Claiming Sean feels right and like he should have done it months ago.
Sean tentatively scratches his head, right at the ears and Tom's left to be nothing more than a big house-cat. Tom thinks, for a moment, that this is better than a Pride, that this is his best friend and it's better. But he thinks about Bill, about Sisky, about Mike and Butcher and he feels something stir in his chest and stomach.
Tom spends the night wrapped around Sean, purring in the way that he used to only let himself do when he was tired. When he was wrapped around Butcher, purring lowly to match Butcher's own sounds. It's different, but good, he thinks, with Sean's voice comforting and normal. He can't understand the words, but when Sean starts singing, Tom stretches out on the bed and goes to sleep.
===
The morning after, he wakes up in an empty bed. He can smell Sean all around him, around the pillow and as he stands, groaning, he can smell the scent of coffee and clean laundry drifting through the apartment. He goes to the bathroom, taking stock of himself in the mirror, sighing softly, pleased, at the lack of bruises.
His muscles ache and his bones are sore, but overall, a good night.
Tom washes his hands before he walks out into the living room. He can smell his scent on everything and it makes the cat in him settle, makes everything settle into place like the very first time he changed. He wipes at his eyes, grimacing at the grit before he walks into the kitchen.
Well, really, he walks to the front of the kitchen and freezes.
Butcher's at the stove, jeans slung low on his hips, torso bare as he cooks. It dawns on Tom then, the scent of clean laundry, the way that Butcher always smells like he's just pulled clothes from the dryer. Tom wants to walk up behind Butcher and press his nose to the soft skin of his neck, rest his teeth there, light and comforting as Butcher pushes back into it, smiling.
Everything in Tom's chest hurts, like he can't breathe. He stares at the line of Butcher's back and then the line of his chest as he turns. Butcher smiles at him, a wry smile that Tom always liked.
"The fuck," Tom says carefully, watching Butcher pour coffee into the tall mug that Tom always uses.
"Bill said to tell you that, and I quote, 'If you're going to ignore us, at least take care of your idiot self,'" Butcher says, handing the mug over. Tom wants to punch him for a split second, wants to watch pain blossom all over his face. He imagines the crunch of Butcher's nose for a moment before the relief at seeing Butcher takes over.
He hates having ever been in a Pride with Butcher. He hates it in the way that he doesn't as he takes a sip of his coffee. Tom looks down at it, closing his eyes as he breathes slowly. When he opens them, Butcher's still standing there, leaning against the fridge like he does this everyday.
"I'm fine," Tom says finally.
"Okay," Butcher says, watching him with that strangely open expression, the one that took Tom forever to get used to. Tom sighs to himself, once, and he takes another sip of his coffee, wincing a little at the heat before he looks over at Butcher.
"Why are you here?"
"I know you don't think you're part of the Pride anymore, but to us, you still are. We knew when you changed. I dunno, I wanted to check up on you. I figured me or Sisky would have the best chance, but baby boy's at home with his parents today."
"So you drew the short straw, huh?" Tom says, walking over to pull out a couple pieces of bread, putting them in the toaster. He goes through the process of propping the toaster up and coiling the cord the right way before he can feel the heat coming out of it. Butcher watches the entire time, amusement in the way he snorts out a soft laugh. Tom ignores him before he turns, leaning back against the counter to look over at him.
"There wasn't a short straw, Tom. It was. You changed for the first time in eight months and I wanted one of us to be here with you this morning," Butcher says.
"Mike okayed that?"
"I know you don't want to believe me on this one, but Mike isn't actually that much of an ass," Butcher says and Tom sighs. He doesn't want to talk about Mike, doesn't want to even think about Mike and the way he'd always press a warm hand to Tom's shoulder. He doesn't think about the Pride and how much he misses it.
He's wrapped up in his thoughts, wrapped up in trying to get his mind off of Mike Carden, that he doesn't notice Butcher until his hand curls around Tom's shoulder. Tom sighs, looking at him, watching Butcher's lips curl into a smile. Butcher's hand is warm through the thin t-shirt that Tom's wearing.
"I think you should come eat lunch with us. But I know you won't," Butcher says, stepping closer. Something in Tom's chest rolls over, stretching out in welcome, like his cat is finally pleased with him. Butcher's hand slides up to curve around his neck, pulling Tom into a soft kiss.
Kissing Butcher is better than he remembers. His beard scratches and he tastes like coffee and sour sleep and Tom doesn't care as he presses closer. Butcher sighs into the kiss, lips curving into a smile and Tom doesn't stop himself from returning it, smiling together. Butcher pulls back for a moment, eyes still closed as he smiles wider.
"You're better here, aren't you?" Butcher asks softly as Tom huffs out a laugh, leaning forward to give into every single instinct and want to press his face into Butcher's neck. He smells like everything Tom remembers, like tour and laughter and music.
Butcher hums softly, pressing a light kiss against Tom's pulse, lips damp and warm. Tom pulls up, feeling sleepy and lazy, like he's been napping in the sun that beams in onto the couch.
"I am," Tom says finally, watching Butcher smile slowly. He nods, kissing him again. They kiss like that until the toast pops up, half burned, half perfect and Tom pulls back, laughing as he grabs the butter from the fridge.
"I'm glad, you know," Butcher says as they eat their toast. Tom looks at him, watching Butcher brush crumbs out of his beard, watching the crumbs fall to the counter.
"Hm?"
"I'm glad that you're better here. Not that. I mean, I miss you in the Pride, yeah, but. It's good," Butcher says, smiling at him. Something in Tom's chest aches for a moment, gone before Tom knows what it really is. He doesn't think about bitterness, about hating anything to do with Mike Carden. Instead, he nods slowly and finishes his coffee.
"You guys eating at Bill's for lunch?" Tom says, feeling like he's on the edge of the bed, almost falling off, but not quite. He feels perched, but comfortable. Butcher blinks at him, face breaking into a hopeful smile and Tom thinks about Max's quiets guitar drifting around the apartment while he figures a song out. He thinks about Ryan following whatever song Al plays, both of them beaming brightly. He thinks about Sean singing, knowing where to match Ryan, where to pull back, and where to sit back and watch Max play with a smile.
"Yeah. I...Are you coming?" Butcher asks as Tom nods slowly, filling his cup with more coffee as he nods again.
"I think so, yeah," Tom says, letting Butcher pull him into a lazy, dirty kiss, smiling the entire time against one another.
Author:
mayqueen517Wordcount: 2215
Rating: PG-15-ish
Pairing: Tom Conrad/Andy 'The Butcher' Mrotek
Summary: Something in Tom's chest rolls over, stretching out in welcome, like his cat is finally pleased with him. Butcher's hand slides up to curve around his neck, pulling Tom into a soft kiss.
Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING. THE IDEA IS MY OWN, THE PEOPLE BELONG TO THEMSELVES. TITLE IS FROM THE SONG BY ADELE.
Warnings: None. Unless I should warn for Werecats?
Author's Notes: Many, many thanks to
hector_rashbaum for looking this over as always."You're gonna get yourself killed if you keep doing this," Tom says when he wakes up. He takes careful stock of himself, sitting up slowly, blinking at the light scratches on his arm and legs. He looks over and watches Butcher stretch languorously, spreading out over the floor easily. He looks like he belongs and Tom hates him in that moment. Tom hates him, hates everything Butcher stands for.
Tom hates the way he wants to touch; run a hand along his side, feeling warm, smooth skin under his fingertips. He wants to press his lips to Butcher's tattoos and to Butcher's own lips. Butcher watches him for a moment, sighing.
"You and I both know that Mike isn't actually that much of an ass," Butcher says, arching off the floor before he collapses back in a pile of limbs, sighing happily. He smacks his lips once, twice, and Tom can't stop staring at him.
"You sure about that?"
"Pretty sure, since he told me to come hang out with you last night."
"And you always do what he tells you, huh?" Tom says, feeling nasty and mean, wanting to cut and hurt and tear. Wanting to do or say anything that'll draw blood. Butcher rolls his eyes though, not rising to the bait.
"Stop being such an ass, Tom. Out of the band doesn't mean out of the Pride," Butcher says, standing. He's naked, they both are, and Tom hates him for the easy way he steps into his jeans, zipping them up. He doesn't button them, walking into the kitchen to start coffee. Tom thinks about the first night spent with the Pride, curled up on the couch, tail swishing in agitation before Sisky had padded over.
He doesn't think about wrestling with Mike, about the way that everything fell into place with a Pride full of cats running around in a too-small apartment. Tom pulls his own clothes on, feeling exposed and angry as he walks into the kitchen, waiting until Butcher's looking at him.
Butcher meets his eyes, calm and waiting, like Tom's fucking prey or something before Tom carefully speaks.
"It does to me," he says softly, waiting until Butcher relaxes and sighs. Tom doesn't know if it's different for werecats, if there's a hierarchy that Tom doesn't know about or something, but something in his gut settles when Butcher sits down. He doesn't think about Mike standing over him, waiting until Tom rolled over; he doesn't like thinking about what that means.
"Tom...I promise you, it's not the same, okay?" Butcher says as Tom sighs. He doesn't think about the rambling conversation where Bill tried to get to the point and Mike tried not to say anything. He doesn't think about Sisky's stricken look or Butcher's pained expression.
He doesn't think about anything as he pulls his coat on, shoving his feet into his flip-flops. Tom grabs his keys, grateful for the cold metal biting into his hand as the coffee-maker beeps behind Butcher.
"But it really kind of is," Tom says, looking at Butcher as he walks out the door. The wind's biting cold, slipping into any little crevice that Tom's left unprotected, but he doesn't notice it. The click of the door echoes in his ears as he walks down, eyes on his feet.
===
"It's been four months, Tom," Jon says softly. Tom looks down at the canisters of film he's gathering, counting and double-checking that he's got all he needs. He doesn't think about not changing, about staying human even though his skin felt like it was coming off.
"Yeah, and?"
"If you wanted. If you wanted to change, I'd sit with you," Jon says finally, voice careful and easy. Tom wants to tell him that he's okay, that nothing's wrong, but he can feel the tension along his spine, like he's spent too long as his cat. It feels like someone's ruffled his fur the wrong way and Tom can hear Jon sigh softly.
"It was just a thought," Jon says as Tom walks into the bathroom, setting up for his own darkroom. Tom meets his eyes, taking in the concern that's in Jon's eyes before he nods and sighs to himself.
"Thanks, Jon."
===
Time passes. It passes faster than Tom anticipates, it always does, but he finds himself not minding so much. Something makes his gut settle when he plays with Ryan, Sean, Max, and Al. Like he's changed; like he could change if he wanted to.
It's been eight months since he last changed. Eight months since padding around the apartment, being able to settle and feel like, for once, things were going to be okay. Tom lets himself relax, lets himself take up any sunny spot that happens to come across the living room floor.
It feels better than before, like accepting the way things are, and when he finally changes, it feels like coming home.
He spends the night padding around the apartment, rubbing his cheek over anything he can find. Sean catches him rubbing his cheek over his guitar and laughs, making Tom stretch and pad over, rubbing his cheek against Sean's fingertips. Claiming Sean feels right and like he should have done it months ago.
Sean tentatively scratches his head, right at the ears and Tom's left to be nothing more than a big house-cat. Tom thinks, for a moment, that this is better than a Pride, that this is his best friend and it's better. But he thinks about Bill, about Sisky, about Mike and Butcher and he feels something stir in his chest and stomach.
Tom spends the night wrapped around Sean, purring in the way that he used to only let himself do when he was tired. When he was wrapped around Butcher, purring lowly to match Butcher's own sounds. It's different, but good, he thinks, with Sean's voice comforting and normal. He can't understand the words, but when Sean starts singing, Tom stretches out on the bed and goes to sleep.
===
The morning after, he wakes up in an empty bed. He can smell Sean all around him, around the pillow and as he stands, groaning, he can smell the scent of coffee and clean laundry drifting through the apartment. He goes to the bathroom, taking stock of himself in the mirror, sighing softly, pleased, at the lack of bruises.
His muscles ache and his bones are sore, but overall, a good night.
Tom washes his hands before he walks out into the living room. He can smell his scent on everything and it makes the cat in him settle, makes everything settle into place like the very first time he changed. He wipes at his eyes, grimacing at the grit before he walks into the kitchen.
Well, really, he walks to the front of the kitchen and freezes.
Butcher's at the stove, jeans slung low on his hips, torso bare as he cooks. It dawns on Tom then, the scent of clean laundry, the way that Butcher always smells like he's just pulled clothes from the dryer. Tom wants to walk up behind Butcher and press his nose to the soft skin of his neck, rest his teeth there, light and comforting as Butcher pushes back into it, smiling.
Everything in Tom's chest hurts, like he can't breathe. He stares at the line of Butcher's back and then the line of his chest as he turns. Butcher smiles at him, a wry smile that Tom always liked.
"The fuck," Tom says carefully, watching Butcher pour coffee into the tall mug that Tom always uses.
"Bill said to tell you that, and I quote, 'If you're going to ignore us, at least take care of your idiot self,'" Butcher says, handing the mug over. Tom wants to punch him for a split second, wants to watch pain blossom all over his face. He imagines the crunch of Butcher's nose for a moment before the relief at seeing Butcher takes over.
He hates having ever been in a Pride with Butcher. He hates it in the way that he doesn't as he takes a sip of his coffee. Tom looks down at it, closing his eyes as he breathes slowly. When he opens them, Butcher's still standing there, leaning against the fridge like he does this everyday.
"I'm fine," Tom says finally.
"Okay," Butcher says, watching him with that strangely open expression, the one that took Tom forever to get used to. Tom sighs to himself, once, and he takes another sip of his coffee, wincing a little at the heat before he looks over at Butcher.
"Why are you here?"
"I know you don't think you're part of the Pride anymore, but to us, you still are. We knew when you changed. I dunno, I wanted to check up on you. I figured me or Sisky would have the best chance, but baby boy's at home with his parents today."
"So you drew the short straw, huh?" Tom says, walking over to pull out a couple pieces of bread, putting them in the toaster. He goes through the process of propping the toaster up and coiling the cord the right way before he can feel the heat coming out of it. Butcher watches the entire time, amusement in the way he snorts out a soft laugh. Tom ignores him before he turns, leaning back against the counter to look over at him.
"There wasn't a short straw, Tom. It was. You changed for the first time in eight months and I wanted one of us to be here with you this morning," Butcher says.
"Mike okayed that?"
"I know you don't want to believe me on this one, but Mike isn't actually that much of an ass," Butcher says and Tom sighs. He doesn't want to talk about Mike, doesn't want to even think about Mike and the way he'd always press a warm hand to Tom's shoulder. He doesn't think about the Pride and how much he misses it.
He's wrapped up in his thoughts, wrapped up in trying to get his mind off of Mike Carden, that he doesn't notice Butcher until his hand curls around Tom's shoulder. Tom sighs, looking at him, watching Butcher's lips curl into a smile. Butcher's hand is warm through the thin t-shirt that Tom's wearing.
"I think you should come eat lunch with us. But I know you won't," Butcher says, stepping closer. Something in Tom's chest rolls over, stretching out in welcome, like his cat is finally pleased with him. Butcher's hand slides up to curve around his neck, pulling Tom into a soft kiss.
Kissing Butcher is better than he remembers. His beard scratches and he tastes like coffee and sour sleep and Tom doesn't care as he presses closer. Butcher sighs into the kiss, lips curving into a smile and Tom doesn't stop himself from returning it, smiling together. Butcher pulls back for a moment, eyes still closed as he smiles wider.
"You're better here, aren't you?" Butcher asks softly as Tom huffs out a laugh, leaning forward to give into every single instinct and want to press his face into Butcher's neck. He smells like everything Tom remembers, like tour and laughter and music.
Butcher hums softly, pressing a light kiss against Tom's pulse, lips damp and warm. Tom pulls up, feeling sleepy and lazy, like he's been napping in the sun that beams in onto the couch.
"I am," Tom says finally, watching Butcher smile slowly. He nods, kissing him again. They kiss like that until the toast pops up, half burned, half perfect and Tom pulls back, laughing as he grabs the butter from the fridge.
"I'm glad, you know," Butcher says as they eat their toast. Tom looks at him, watching Butcher brush crumbs out of his beard, watching the crumbs fall to the counter.
"Hm?"
"I'm glad that you're better here. Not that. I mean, I miss you in the Pride, yeah, but. It's good," Butcher says, smiling at him. Something in Tom's chest aches for a moment, gone before Tom knows what it really is. He doesn't think about bitterness, about hating anything to do with Mike Carden. Instead, he nods slowly and finishes his coffee.
"You guys eating at Bill's for lunch?" Tom says, feeling like he's on the edge of the bed, almost falling off, but not quite. He feels perched, but comfortable. Butcher blinks at him, face breaking into a hopeful smile and Tom thinks about Max's quiets guitar drifting around the apartment while he figures a song out. He thinks about Ryan following whatever song Al plays, both of them beaming brightly. He thinks about Sean singing, knowing where to match Ryan, where to pull back, and where to sit back and watch Max play with a smile.
"Yeah. I...Are you coming?" Butcher asks as Tom nods slowly, filling his cup with more coffee as he nods again.
"I think so, yeah," Tom says, letting Butcher pull him into a lazy, dirty kiss, smiling the entire time against one another.