Insomnia had wrapped its cold, unforgiving claws around quickly that night.
Propped up by a mountain pillows, back slouched against the headboard, and TomeeBear tucked neatly under his drooped chin, he hummed a soft tune under his breath. Rocking from side to side, he struggled to calm his insistent, nagging thoughts; brain crackling unpleasantly at his frazzled nerves.
Rain thudded heavily against the window pane, harsh wrapping winds shuddering the glass, causing it to rattle endlessly within the gloom of the night. Dark, thick clouds hung overhead incessantly, blanketing the sky in a dull, nightmarish grey. There wasn't one star to be seen.
Tom hated how much of a metaphor it was for his life.
Despite the chaotic jumbled mess of his day, and the hazy buzz of exhaustion creeping ever closer over his field of vision, the luxury of sleep still eluded him. It wasn't the loudness of the weather or his regularly scheduled brooding existential crisis that kept him awake this time, however.
Instead, the near constant writhing of his anxious thoughts wreaked havoc on his conscious, strung up tightly from a fidgety, nervous energy. It was hard to fully wrap his head around the last twenty-four hours, the onslaught of new information was confusingly vague, as usual, and there were a lot of variables he hadn't considered before.
Ms Sinclair had snapped up his pathetic, soggy ass without much of a struggle- sitting there in her tall chair as she watched him beg with a deadpan and almost bored expression. It made sense, in a way. Whilst he wasn't a complete expert on gang-based indoctrination; he did know for certain that manipulation worked best on people who were already weak and malleable, their minds susceptible to any outside guidance.
Maybe that's what Ms Sinclair had in mind for him. Gentle prodding can go a long way if done effectively and if lead by a stable reassuring hand could be coaxed into doing just about anything that is desired. She saw his blubbering, shaking form and saw the same potential that Tord had.
The cross-dressing was just a nice blackmail cherry, on top of a cake of insufferable control and deceit.
Although, it was unknown whether Ms Sinclair was aware of the mildly illegal business being conducted in her cafe. How could he really tell the difference between excusable coincidences and deliberate actions without asking too many suspicious questions? If Tord's words were to be taken as gospel, then the only absolute truth that he knew for certain was that the leader's son was a frequent visitor and that the bakery they use as a front had heavy connections with sweet production.
Who made the cupcakes for the cafe?
Cherri.
A twinge of pain burst through his chest.
Could she be apart of the gang? It was possible. Being the confident, sassy person that she was, he could definitely see how she could use her sharp tongue to persuade anyone to do her bidding. She was the one that introduced him to the business, after all.
Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, he closed his eyes with a deep, pained sigh.
For the sake of his health, decided not to dwell on it for too long.
The newfound possibility of danger and the warped sense of guilt he possessed for the secrets he was keeping weighed heavily on his shoulders, an unmistakable ache rippling through his muscles as though it had manifested itself into a physical discomfort.
It was safer this way. Not for himself, obviously, but for his friends.
"The less you know, the better off you'll be."
He shivered and curled the blanket tighter against his body, bear squished in his death grip.
The irony of the words wasn't lost on him.
--
After a few hours of uncomfortable shuffling, Tom decided that it wasn't worth wasting his time agonising over the inevitable in his bed. He could just as easily do that whilst in the shower- the two weren't mutually exclusive.
House still dark, and roommates fast asleep, Tom had set off to work a good three before he was supposed to. It was just as well, he reasoned, if he was going to have such a miserable day he might as well try to finish it quicker. Not to mention, after the fucking catastrophe that was the day before, he needed the extra time to prepare himself.
Besides, he didn't think he had the stomach to see Tord during breakfast- his eyes may make his poker face game strong, but he definitely didn't possess the emotional stability to pretend that nothing had changed between them. It was painful enough just thinking about it.
Dropping off his stained dress into the washing room, he attempted to apply his usual subtle makeup with shaking, bandaged digits. It went well, considering he was too tired to properly function.
Getting clean clothes was a different matter entirely.
Unfortunately, thanks to the vast difference in height and build with Cherri, wearing an unused edgy punk frock was out of the question. Which, in all cases, was unquestionably shitty since the alternative was borrowing one of Connie's.
Luckily (or unluckily, depending on the perspective), since his time working at the cafe, he had lost a considerable amount of weight. He didn't really know if it was due to the stress, or the fact that his diet was eighty per cent Smirnoff, but either way, when he looked in the mirror at his little pastel blue monstrosity, he concluded that he didn't look that bad.
Although, there was one factor that he hadn't thought about before. Narrowing his eyes at his reflection, he cursed hotly under his breath.
There was a light dusting of bruises smattered across his neck, the splodges of purple and blue standing out against the pale canvas of his skin. He fingered them worriedly, uncertain of what to do. The possibility of passing them off as hickies wasn't an option; he didn't know what his client's reactions would be, and besides, if they looked too hard, they could easily map out the shape of two large hands. Covering them with a collar was probably the best idea, as much as the thought made him cringe.
Actually, fuck it. He might as well wear the matching cat ears too- if Tord was going to check the place out, they might as well have a giggle about how ridiculous he looked- if he didn't get murked for releasing mafia secrets, that is.
Speaking of mafia secrets; he suddenly realised that he was very much alone. Breath quickening, he felt goosebumps leak out onto his flesh.
He had promised to look through the back, hadn't he?
Looking through the rooms was nothing short of a panic attack, but he somehow managed to coax himself through it. Slowly combing his way through piles of unwashed dresses and slightly dusty cleaning supplies, he realised he didn't know what he was looking for.
What do dangerous gang members usually like to hide, and keep off the radar? A gun? Fat stacks of cash? A tasty bit of meth?
He didn't have a clue.
Deliberating for a bit he concluded that the kitchen and Ms Sinclairs office was probably the two best places to keep the before mentioned items. One was clearly more daunting than the other, so he picked to check out the former first.
Apart from a large industrial fridge (which now seemed a lot more sinister than it did before), and a cupboard full of generic baking ingredients, he didn't have much luck. He couldn't be one hundred per cent sure that one of the large see-through plastic tubs of white powder wasn't, in fact, cocaine, but he couldn't prove it was either. What would he do, rub it on his gums? And then what? They made it seem so easy on detective shows.
Tired with his own procrastination, he moved on. Shaking as he did so, he wandered through the familiar long corridor, ears straining in paranoia. He jimmied open the wooden door, blinking in surprise when he found it to be open.
That wasn't a good sign.
Swinging the door open as quietly as he could, he peered around the corner, sighing faintly in relief when he saw that Ms Sinclair wasn't in the room. He hurried in, closing the door behind him as he made a break for the desk.
There were pieces of paper strewn messily across the surface, piles of important looking documents mixed up with coffee stained napkins and wonky, handwritten notes. Filing cabinets lay beside the desk, and with an interested quirk of an eyebrow, he noticed an old looking safe hiding near the back.
Maybe the combination was on one of the notes?
Shuffling the stacks around in a way he hoped wasn't detectable, he flipped through them at a concentrated pace. The mass majority were financing statements and utility bills, but there were a few scribbled notations that he found useful. Reading them over carefully, he failed to hear the fast-paced trudging footsteps rapidly approaching the room.
The shaking of the door handle was enough to cause his heart to jump in his throat, eyes widening as he panicked in silence. Thinking quickly, he picked up a random pile and swiftly shoved them in his bra, organising them as he practically leapt into the visitors' chair on the opposite side of the table.
Ms Sinclair walked into the room, a fresh cup of tea cradled in her small, delicate hands. She looked as tired as he felt, large black rims circled underneath her eyes, a displeased curl in her features. The look wasn't the least bit improved when she finally noticed him.
He attempted to smile at her. It came out as more of a grimace.
"Tamara." She stated curtly, brushing past him on the way to her own chair, "Has anyone ever told you that you are not allowed in my office without me being there?"
Ah, straight to business then.
Attempting to look apologetic, he looked down at his hands, "No- I don't think so? I was hoping to talk to you, about yesterday."
He heard her sigh deeply, "Ah, yes. I'm sure our beloved Cherri has told you about my... Disappointment."
Gulping, he furrowed his brow, "I didn't mean to run off- it was just, I don't know-I'm sorry."
Tapping her fingers against the wooden surface in a monotonous pace, she scrutinised him dryly, "I don't know if a sorry is going to cut it, Miss Rockwell."
His breathing picked up, his pulse pounding loudly behind his ears. He absentmindedly wondered if she could hear it too.
"Ms Sinclair, I-"
With a pointed look, she silenced him, "Since I allowed Miss Connie to leave early that morning, I only had two waitresses on standby. Now, when you decided it was a good idea to run away, Cherri was the only one left to pick up the slack for the rest of the day. Do you think that was the best idea?"
The condescending tone made him shiver, and he shook his head meekly in reply.
"No. No, it was not."
Silence reigned. Tom fought the urge to fidget under the heavy air, he felt as though he was stewing in his own guilt.
She gazed at him thoughtfully, "If I gave you an opportunity to redeem yourself, would you take it?"
He nodded immediately, very much eager to leave and put the whole ordeal behind him. Besides, the paper he had stuffed down his shirt was beginning to get really itchy.
"What do I have to do?"
Ms Sinclair sent him a small, twisted smile- the first remotely positive emotion that he's seen spread across her face. It was unnerving.
It felt wrong.
"I'm sure we can figure something out."
—
A/N: Baby's first fan art? Oh heck yeah. I want to give a shout out to my beautiful child @Kittenzlove for this masterpiece:
Ahh yes, the meme that went too far.
It definitely made me feel better about my shitty day, and I hope it has the same effect on all of y'all as well.