Tomtord Oneshots (Completed)

our last fanfiction

It was probably the first rule of the whole base— don't piss off the Red Leader.

Tom's only average at that rule, but hey. He's still alive, so it doesn't really matter.

"Tom." Tord sighed, placing his pen down on the desk as he looked at Tom, eyes red and bloodshot.

"Go to your room. This isn't fun. I won't allow you to work overtime." He spoke sternly, pulling the spare pen away from Tom as he stared at the brit. "Please." He added, tired-- far too tired-- to deal with this. "Go rest. Go to the cafeteria, socialise." He suggested, keeping his voice somewhat formal.

Tom huffed, meeting Tord's gaze with narrowed eyes. "Sorry, sir, but you look like you're going to collapse from exhaustion. I should be the one telling you to go rest. Contrary to popular belief, having the leader pass out from lack of sleep does not set a good example."

Shit, he got a little salty there.

"Sorry," he mumbled, averting his eyes. "Really, sir. I can handle some extra work. It's better than doing nothing for the rest of the day." He shrugged, tapping his fingers against his leg.

"Contrary to popular belief," Tord spoke, "I do not like or wish to work my soldiers overtime, Thomas. I will be fine. Dismissed." He took the stack of paper back from Tom, placing it by his side and continuing to sign the forms, stilling for a moment.

"If you're so desperate for something to do," the fair-haired male said, "then go and check on how the soldiers are doing in the clinic for me. You are far more approachable than I am."

The Leader never took his eyes off of the page, signing it and placing it off into the stack he had finished reading, verifying and signing.

He was incredibly insistent on pushing Tom away from the documents. Maybe because he was afraid of Tom accidentally signing something wrong.

"After that duty, go to the cafeteria and ease yourself. You've been excelling in the tasks I give you. Thank you." He ended, obviously not leaving any space for argument, unless Tom wanted to tire Tord out more.

Though he doesn't show it, Tord appreciates what Tom does for him. And, it was true, Tom was excellent at all the tasks Tord gave him, always being able to organise and coordinate them properly. Whether it be from fear or what, Tord was never disappointed at what heights Tom could achieve.

Hell, he was proud. Maybe that was why he didn't mind how informal they talked in private.

Tom huffed in annoyance, standing up. "Right away, sir," he replied begrudgingly, finally walking out of the room.

God, did he hate Tord. The Norse looked like he was on the verge of passing out, yet he was still too arrogant to accept Tom's help.

Stupid commie.

He let out another huff to himself as he walked to the clinic, which took an astounding fifteen minutes because Tom didn't trust the damn elevators in this place.

When he learned of the soldiers physical stays, he rushed out as fast as he could to get back to Tord's office.

He gave a little knock, waiting for permission.

"Enter." The voice behind the office door spoke, no expression displayed on the Norwegian's lips as he blinked tiredly, hands resting and in pause of his signature writing.

When Tom entered, he let out a small Norwegian mumble as he rubbed his eye.

"Tell me straight, Tom. Cut the bullshit. What do you want from me? What do you want?" He looked at the Brit with a confused face, eyebrows furrowed and face scrunched as if he were looking through the harsh sunlight outside. "Don't you want to be in some other department? In the cafeteria? Your room? Reading a book? Drawing a hologram? Strumming your bass?" Tord questioned, formal attitude dropping completely just like his drooped shoulders and eyes; lazy.