Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Cutting it close

It was late when he finally got back to the house, the lights dim and the lower level rooms were devoid of any signs of life.

The cafe had been busier than usual, as there was a reasonably large anime convention in town, which really piled up the workload for them. Their regulars were upset that they didn't get their regular amount of personal time with their preferred waitress, as they were all taking and collecting orders for the mass of cosplayers that spilled in through the doors. So, saddled with more work than he had ever been assigned to in his life up to that point, and dealing with entitled, irate costumers had really left them all feeling miserably sore.

Exhaustion had finally started to creep up on him as he swung the door closed and locked it firmly. A yawn threatened to bubble up from his throat, and his jaw ached from smiling all day. Rubbing his eyes, he cut his way through the living room as quietly as possible, hissing slightly as he accidentally stubbed his toe on a rogue table leg.

"You're back late."

The voice came out of nowhere, being as dark as it was, and Tom only just had the conscious to slap a hand around his gaping mouth before he screamed.

In the corner of the room, Tord sat tensely in the recliner, a lit cigar perched to his lips. He looked at him steadily, before dramatically turning on the lamp beside him, illuminating part of his face and side, but leaving the rest to blend uneasily in the harsh gloom of night.

Tom stared at him for a couple of seconds, dumbfounded, "Are you serio- who does this outside of movie villains? Am I being interrogated for stealing mafia secrets, or am I a naughty teenage girl that snook out to see her boyfriend?"

He wasn't sure what sort of reply he would get from that, but to be fair, it was a fairly ridiculous position to be in. Did Tord seriously stay up so he could catch him coming home? That was- stupid, weird, kinda creepy-

Actually sort of sweet?

Stamping on that thought immediately, Tom turned to leave.

"Are you wearing fake eyelashes?"

He could have sworn he heard a pin drop.

Swallowing the rapidly beating heart that was attempting to crawl up his throat, Tom tensed, his shoulders squared. Forcing his face into a neutral blank mask and having absolutely no idea if it looked natural or convincing, he rolled with it, hoping beyond hope that maybe his shitty day wouldn't get worse.

"No? Why would I be wearing-"

Tom squinted at him, and, for the first time in weeks, truly looked at the man. He couldn't make out as much as he would have liked to in the dim light, but he did definitely notice the deep, black bags that circled his eyes, the new crease in his brow, his incredibly tight posture.

The blood that stained his clothing.

Congealed blood stained the brilliant red fabric of his hoody. A rough circle of sticky crimson oozed out between the fibres at the meat of his shoulder, warping the colour. Without the hazy, detached feeling if tiredness lingering over him, Tom could now make out the faintest metallic twang that hung in the air.

Eyes widening, he sucked in a quick breath.

What the fuck had happened?

"What the fuck have you done?" He says instead. It sounded harder, and sharper than he had meant.

Tord's eyes were cold; steely; angry. Lips were twisted down into a disgusted snarl, jaw tight and nostrils flared. His stance poised, strung up with an intense killers energy, and yet he sat, stock still- waiting.

Swallowing thickly, Tom suddenly realised that, despite the obvious joke that he had made of the situation before; he was, in fact, being interrogated for-

For what?

Apart from the cliche nature that this scene had begun with, it was clear that the Norwegian had done this before- had taken special home visits to people to threaten them into secrecy.

He never did tell us what his day job was.

Came the uneasily whisper of his subconscious.

He never did tell us why he left all of those years ago.

"Tom." Tord's voice was deep and raspy. It cut through to his core, lighting up his nerves.

He told himself that he hated the way his body tingled in response to his grizzled accent.

Tord stood up, back straight and chest broad," Tom, Tom, Tom-"

Each utterance of his name was punctuated with a solid step in his direction, eyes glued to his own. Dominance pooled from his body, slick and addictive like sweat.

Tom stamped down the urge to back away.

He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Classic, stupid, Tom."

Suddenly, Tom felt puffs of hot breath ghost across his face, cheeks warning. They were a hairs-breath apart, noses nearly touching at their closeness.

He felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, low and heavy; nervous. Barely fighting the urge to moisten his lips, he absentmindedly wondered how soft Tord's were.

"I know what you are." The words were whispered, hushed, but still hard set and filled with the promises to maim, "I'm going to enjoy tearing you apart."

Breath hitching in his chest, he said nothing, eyes half-lidded as he watched his mouth move.

"I always knew that you'd join in on this game. But I'd never guess that you'd do it this way."

Thoroughly entranced, Tom only faintly noticed the odd expression that suddenly swept over Tord's face. He watched as his jaw clenched, eyes narrowing in barely disguised confusion.

Tord's head tilted backwards, expression quipping down into a frown, "You really are wearing fake eyelashes."

The change from warm, intimate whispering to a puzzled normal tone was jarring, and Tom blinked back into reality.

Warmth had sunk into his front from where their bodies were touching, but instead of being the intoxicating hotness that it was before, it became an overwhelming scorching heat.

It felt wrong.

Gasping, Tom reacted on instinct and threw his arms out. Placing both palms on Tord's chest he shoved hard, surprising him as he got knocked off balance. Serving backwards into the couch, he stared, unsettled as Tord dug his heel into the carpet, one arm clenching his wound as he hissed.

They locked eyes again.

Heart thundering in his chest, Tom licked his lips, throat dry.

He was confused- he was pretty sure he was not being accused of being a transvestite. Far from it, it seemed. Blackmail that was useful yes, but Tom didn't exactly know enough people for that to be a life-ruining consequence.

Maybe he gave the Norwegian too much credit.

He smirked, suddenly finding the confidence to chuckle darkly, "I can't wait, Big Boy."
--

A/N: When you write a fanfic about Tom dressing in drag and you get this video in the same week.

Haters will say it's a coincidence.

(it is)

Oh, also. I originally wrote this so that when Tord said, "I'm going to enjoy tearing you apart." , Tom was like, "Yes daddy, please destroy me." but I couldn't stop laughing at it when proofreading so I took it out.