Page 7 of A Cure for Recovery

“Hm?” Tommy closes his eyes and tries to arch up into the touch like a cat, hungry for it.

“You said, ‘Yeah, well…’ Yeah, well, what?” Lawson works oily fingers up the back of his neck, and traces his hairline. “Dr. Wilson get you all out of sorts?”

“No.” That’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth, either. “I mean…physical therapy always sucks,” he finishes, lamely, and berates himself for choking on the words.

The problem is, if he had to dig down to the root of it, he spent a very long time pretending to be something he wasn’t. Hiding his wants, and his hurts, playing a part, running every single thing he said through a filter before it left his mouth.I love you so much, I’ve loved you for the whole twenty years we were apart and was trying to get back to you, please hear me out, is what he wanted to say the moment he walked into Coffee Town and laid eyes on Lawson. But he was an asshole instead, playing Tommy Cattaneo, glowering, insulting,hurting.

He got his happy ending. But those twenty years of police work took their toll, and he’s learning just how much of one every day.

“She bend you up like a pretzel?” Lawson asks, a laugh lurking in his voice.

“Not today. It was mostly just walking.” He shifts his hips, but not far, because he can’t, because Lawson’s straddling him and he’sheavy. God, he loves that. A little more heat builds between his legs. “But you can do that, if you want.” He doesn’t have to fake the way his voice gets raspy at the end.

Lawson’s hands still again. And stay still, this time. Tommy hears Lawson’s breath, a little rough, a little unsteady. He doesn’t get the impression it’s because he’s turned on.

Tommy twists his head around and sees that Lawson is staring at his back, his lashes low, his jawline sharp and square as he tenses it. He doesn’t look angry, but there’s something wrong, there. A depth of thought, of worry, that in turn makes Tommy worry.

“What?”

Lawson’s hands move again – but only to grip on either side of Tommy’s neck, right at the join, long fingers wrapping over to lay against his collarbones. His voice is quiet when he says, “I didn’t know you couldn’t feel your legs at all.” When he swallows, it sounds thick and painful, and his lashes flicker fast, dark fans on his cheeks.

Tommy’s chest clenches. “It’s only sometimes. And I’m not sure that’s even the right way to say it. It’s not like they’re not there, it’s just–” He cuts off when Lawson’s eyes lift and flash to meet his own, full of impossible hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s not accusatory, but sad. Terribly, awfully sad.

Tommy wants to punch himself in the face for putting that look on Lawson’s.

“I thought you were feeling better.”

“I am. Law, Iam.”

His gaze drops again.

“Let me up. I wanna turn over.”

Lawson moves off his legs, and then, to Tommy’s dismay, moves to sit on the side of the bed, feet on the floor. He grips the mattress, and his shoulders slump, looking narrower than they really are inside his plain gray t-shirt.

Tommy twists around to lie on his side, propped on his elbow. He can feel his legs at the moment, and they respond accordingly, only the faintest pains shooting down the outsides of his hips and wrapping around his thighs. Familiar pangs he’s long since learned to dismiss.

He slides his hand in the crook of Lawson’s elbow. “Hey.”

Lawson’s head only half turns, his gaze askance, wary.

Oh, Tommy thinks.I’ve really fucked up.

Voice gentle, he says, “I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t something new. I’ve been dealing with it off and on the whole time.”

“I thought–” Lawson starts, then shakes his head, and looks away again.

Tommy sits up, which isn’t as effortless as it used to be, his muscles gone soft and unsteady from disuse. And isn’t that stupid? He should have been working on his stretches, on his Pilates, his upper body exercises, and instead he’s kept putting it off.When I’m better, he always thinks.When I’m healed.

But maybe he never will be.

The thought puts a lump in his throat that he swallows down, so he can pet up and down Lawson’s arm, raking through the dusting of golden hair there.

“What?” he prompts. “What are you upset about?”

Lawson shakes his head again, and breathes a humorless chuckle. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

---