Archive of Our Own ^beta

(I.)

If Tommy thought getting beaten bloody on the pavement outside of IRL would get him out of having to do the paperwork, he's mistaken.

The last ambulance leaves at six in the morning, and even Sophia has given up keeping a suspicious eye on the CSI team securing the evidence in order to go home and finally get some sleep. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, the crowd of gawkers and reporters gradually disperses, doubtlessly hurrying off to the next major spectacle. It's New York, so they won't have to look long or hard to find one.

Tommy's still unable to shake off the adrenaline rush. He's too high-strung to sleep, but he idly fantasizes about going home to grab a shower and wash off the street grime and blood and stale sweat from last night. Maybe go on a jog, or take Boris out for a walk in the park.

Instead, Catherine insists he stays at the office to write up his report and take statements. She doesn't say anything, doesn't act like it's anything out of the ordinary, but the lines of disapproval on her face whenever she looks at him are enough to let him know that it's punishment for failing to report when Bubonic got in touch the other night.

Bubonic would probably get a kick out of it, knowing that he's ruining Tommy's day without lifting a single finger.

Tommy digs into the keyboard harder than he probably should while he's typing up his report. He grinds his teeth when Catherine casually drops another file on his desk, and he only just stops himself from kicking the desk or snapping that telling her wouldn't have changed a thing. Bubonic would still have targeted Lindy and the IRL party last night, Tommy would still have stepped out to meet him and got punched in the face by some dumb asshole who wasn't aware that he was being manipulated by a hacktivist hellbent on getting one over Tommy, and the Flirtual Killer and Bubonic would both still be in the wind.

It's not like Tommy doesn't get why Catherine is angry, but she's not the one who almost got her jaw broken and her dog killed. Bubonic is targeting Tommy – not the CCU, not Catherine. So of course Tommy's treating it like it's personal. Because it clearly is fucking personal for Bubonic.

Tommy is still carrying that frustration with him when he finally makes it back to his empty apartment at quarter past ten that night. It's well over forty hours since he last slept. He's wrung-out and sore, the bruises on his face blooming a painful deep red and every movement sending sharp pain through his ribcage. Boris is with Mrs. White from upstairs, and it's too late in the night to knock on her door now, no matter how much it would soothe Tommy's frayed nerves to bury his face in Boris's fur and make sure he's alright.

He doesn't even have a fucking mattress anymore. There's a pile of blankets in the closet that are so old and ratty that it's hardly a surprise that no one took them. Tommy grimly remembers that guy he pulled his gun on complaining about used linens, like the idea that free stuff wasn't in pristine condition was offensive.

The blankets give off a musty smell and they make a piss-poor makeshift bed, but they'll have to do. Just as Tommy's spreading them on the floor, his phone goes off. He wants it to be Lindy, and expects it to be Catherine, but when he looks at the screen it says UNKNOWN in ominous letters, and his anger spikes afresh.

"Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, you're—"

Bubonic doesn't even let him get to the empty threat that's on the tip of his tongue. "Temper, temper, Detective Calligan. Is that a way to greet— What was it you told Lindy? 'An old friend'?"

What? Tommy frowns, taken aback. He remembers standing on the top floor at IRL and brushing off Lindy's curiosity. An old friend's in town. Not a good thing. But the party had already started then, and even if Bubonic had bugged the entire club, the noise level should have prevented any eavesdropping. Unless Bubonic had a bug on Tommy. Or if he was standing right behind them.

And that's— Shit. The idea that Bubonic might have been so close that all Tommy had to do was turn and slap a pair of handcuffs on him— Tommy's hands clench into fists. Such a shame Bubonic isn't quite that close now, just so Tommy could punch his creepy mask right off his face.

Don't let on, he tells himself. That's what Bubonic wants. If Tommy lets him know how much Bubonic's getting to him, he's already lost.

He keeps his tone light. "Right. If that's how you treat your friends, I don't want to know what you do to your enemies."

Bubonic doesn't immediately fire back another jibe. Seconds tick by without a response, and when he finally answers, his voice has gone quiet and soft and so cold that it sends a chill down Tommy's spine.

"You really think I couldn't do much worse? Clean out your belongings, make a guy punch you in the face, give a few greedy morons who think attending a serial killer party is a good idea a bit of a scare... It speaks of a sad lack of imagination if that's the worst punishment you can think of. Do you assume I'm unleashing all my anger on you?" He makes an ugly sound that no one in their right mind would call a laugh. "Because let me assure you, I am holding back. You have no idea what it means to really lose something. If I wanted to, I could ruin every aspect of your life with a single keystroke. I could take away everything you ever cared for and you would never be able to come back from it."

The viciousness of the threat douses the red-hot flames of Tommy's fury in ice water. There's something unsettling about Bubonic's poorly restrained rage. It's the first time Tommy has witnessed him be anything but cool and calculating and in-control. He knows he should use that. Put more pressure on Bubonic until he cracks and makes a mistake. Only, Tommy isn't so sure it won't be the kind of mistake that takes everyone around Bubonic down with him.

The worst part is that he knows it's not just empty boasting. He's seen the evidence of what Bubonic is capable of. Putting out an ad for Tommy's shit and hijacking Hamish's stupid party was child's play.

"You almost got my dog killed," Tommy objects, but even to himself, his accusations sound weak. "And then you led Lindy into a basement that was rigged to blow up."

"Your dog lived, didn't he? And Lindy is fine. All you have to show for this terrible ordeal is a couple of bruises on your pretty face. So make no mistake, Detective Calligan, what I did to you today wasn't even a trifling, microscopic fraction of what you deserve."

He spits the words like they're poison, and then he hangs up, leaving Tommy alone with his frustration and his dread, his heart jackhammering a furious rhythm under his aching ribs.

(II.)

Tommy startles awake, disoriented, the ringing in his head so loud and piercing that it feels like his scalp is coming off.

It takes him a moment to realize that the sound is coming from his phone. When he reaches for it, he fails to pick it up twice before he finally manages, his fingers uncoordinated and stiff as he fumbles to accept the call.

The voice at the other end of the line is much too chipper and loud, aggravating the headache. "Hello, Tommy. This is your scheduled wake-up call. How is the brain injury treating you?"

Bubonic. Of course. Just what Tommy needs to improve this shitty day.

He made a mess of his current case. Botched up an arrest, let the suspect get away, got a nasty concussion for his troubles. And now Bubonic's playing nurse. Tommy might be tempted to just hang up on him, if that wasn't a surefire way to prompt Bubonic to escalate until Tommy engages with him. Bubonic never liked being ignored.

"Better before you woke me up." Not much better, granted, but at least he was asleep then and didn't have to keep up with Bubonic's quick-witted taunts that are hard enough to counter when Tommy's brain is in working order.

Bubonic clicks his tongue. "Just following medical guidelines, Detective. Waking up the concussed patient every two hours to make sure they're still responsive and alert. Well, as alert as you ever are, I suppose. I figured I might help you out, since you took it upon yourself to discharge yourself from the hospital with— Wait, let me check your file again real quick so I get this right! 'Sluggishness, balance problems, confusion, memory loss, sensitivity to light, and' – my favorite one – 'irritability.' Because you're such a model of serenity and pleasantness on a normal day."

His tone is light and sly, notably lacking the glacial hostility from their last conversation. Clearly, Tommy giving himself a concussion has made his fucking day.

"Fuck off. And get the hell out of my medical records."

It makes Tommy's stomach churn to imagine the kind of damage Bubonic could do with those records, if he wanted. Just a few keystrokes might ruin – or end – Tommy's life.

"Hmm. But they're such a fascinating read! I think your psych eval might be my favorite part."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Tommy can't stop himself from making choked sound. He rubs a hand over his face, wincing when he accidentally pokes at the wound.

He works in Cyber Crime; he knows that no data is ever really private, that all information that's stored somewhere electronically can be hacked and accessed. But there's a difference between being aware of the possibility and finding himself faced with the knowledge that conversations he shared with a shrink have become a criminal's bedtime reading.

His brain is too scrambled to remember whether he ever talked about Bubonic in those sessions and if he did, how revealing the records might be to the man himself. Then again, Tommy's not the one poring over Bubonic's confidential files to figure him out, so even if Tommy has... a bit of a fixation, it runs both ways.

"I'm flattered you find me so interesting." Not exactly the most clever comeback, but it's in the middle of the night and Tommy has a concussion. If Bubonic expects some kind of witty repartee from him, it's his own fault.

He lies back and closes his eyes, keeping the phone at his ear as he listens to Bubonic's chuckle. "Have you told your Sergeant Shaw that you're flattered by the attention of someone from her most wanted list?"

"I don't tell Catherine much when it comes to you," Tommy admits, and instantly regrets it. That's probably not something Bubonic should know.

He feels feverish, light-headed, and he isn't sure if it's the injury or the prickling awareness that he gave away too much. The heavy, lingering silence at the other end of the line doesn't help.

"No, I suppose you don't," Bubonic says finally, and there's an edge in his voice that wasn't there before, all the earlier playfulness wiped away.

Tommy's still thinking about what to say, how to play it off as a joke maybe, when Bubonic speaks again. "Sleep well, Tommy. I'll talk to you in two hours."

Jesus. No, Tommy wants to sleep until morning, none of that bullshit 'wake up every couple of hours' stuff that he's sure has been medically disproven at least a decade ago.

"Don't—" Tommy starts, but Bubonic has already cut the connection.

Tommy puts his phone down on the pillow next to him. He wants to rewind the last five, ten minutes, make himself not pick up the call.

The phone doesn't ring again.

Or, if it does, Tommy doesn't remember it in the morning. His sleep is restless and fitful, undermined by fractured snapshots of weird dreams. Ben with his throat gaping open, gasping for air, calling Tommy's name, and Tommy tries to run towards him but no matter how much he struggles, he can't lift his feet off the ground— A noose around Tommy's neck, growing tighter and tighter as he dangles from the ceiling of a cell, his lungs stinging and darkness edging on his vision— Lindy in a red dress, and she's kissing him, sweet and soft and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world, but when he reaches for her, she dissolves into nothingness and his hand closes around empty air—

And then there's Bubonic leaning over Tommy, so close that the long beak of his mask almost scrapes over Tommy's cheek. The leather smells warm and smokey. Bubonic's hand brushes over Tommy's face, his hair, the bandage over the head wound, and his touch is gentle where Tommy expects pain.

"You have to take better care of yourself, Tommy," he mutters, and Tommy laughs because even in the dream he knows how absurd it is that Bubonic should be concerned for him when he never made any secret about wanting to hurt Tommy. "You don't get to die on me. I'm not finished with you yet."

There shouldn't be anything soothing about the familiarity of Bubonic's biting words, the possessive menace in them, but it's— comforting. Tommy sinks deeper into sleep, and there are no more nightmares haunting him until he wakes up.

Behind his forehead pounds a headache, a dull, persistent ache he can't shake. Too-bright sunbeams are streaming through the gaps in the blinds. A look at his phone tells Tommy it's almost noon.

There's a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the floor next to the bed. Tommy's memories from last night are fuzzy, vague, like walking through a wall of fog, but he can't remember putting the pills there. He must have, because the alternative is—

Tommy gets up on wobbly legs and checks the door. It's locked, no sign of forced entry or that anything's amiss. No sign that anyone was here at all. But Bubonic's words before he ended the call come back to him at once, and he remembers Bubonic in his dream, the cool precise touch of his fingertips against Tommy's cheeks.

( I'll talk to you in two hours. )

( I'm not finished with you yet. )

"Son of a bitch," he curses under his breath.

He takes the aspirin anyway, trusting that even if Bubonic wanted him dead, poison wouldn't be his style.

(III.)

"Happy birthday, Detective Calligan. Did you like my present?"

Tommy closes his eyes and holds the bottle against his forehead, reveling in the feeling of cool, wet glass against his flushed skin. The loud beat of the music vibrates unpleasantly in his stomach. Around him, an amalgam of dozens of conversations blends into a constant buzzing background noise. It makes Bubonic's voice sound oddly intimate. His words carry through the line clear and precise, just like Bubonic whispering right into his ear. Tommy can almost feel the warm exhale of breath prickling against his neck.

The phantom sensation makes Tommy paranoid enough to check, but when he turns his head, there's no one nearby who fits Bubonic's profile even a little. Tommy tells himself that he isn't disappointed.

"Sure, it was great. I've always wanted to be stranded in a suburban hellscape five hours out with a broken car and a dead phone," he scoffs. At least he lives in New York. If he had been in Vegas, Bubonic probably would have dropped him off in the middle of the desert. Turning his old Nissan into a self-driving car that essentially kidnapped him had been a nice touch, too. Something straight out of a sci-fi movie, except for the part where Tommy had been terrified the whole time that the car would accelerate and drive him right off a bridge or into a wall. But apparently, Bubonic still doesn't particularly want to kill him, which is... nice to know. He'd still rather not have a repeat of today, if he can avoid it. "But hey, if you want to skip the trouble next time, just send roses and a bottle of wine."

He chuckles at his own joke. It's not really that funny. Nothing about this is funny. But fuck it, he deserves the laugh, after today.

"Are you drunk?" Bubonic asks, vaguely outraged. Because God forbid Tommy treats his twisted little games with any kind of levity.

He offers a noncommittal hum. "Getting there."

Barely. Tommy isn't stupid enough to get wasted when Bubonic already has him in his crosshairs; he'd like to maintain at least the illusion that he's alert enough to react if Bubonic ever stops toying with him and moves in for the kill, literally or figuratively.

He's had three beers. No, wait, four. Four beers. Not enough to really get wasted, but there's a pleasant cloud in his mind, like soft, sticky-sweet cotton wool softening the harsh edges, just enough to make everything seem a bit less serious. Lindy's continued silence. Catherine's disapproval. The hole in his life Ben's death left. Bubonic's vicious pranks.

"Aren't you pathetic? Having a pity-party all by yourself on your birthday," Bubonic taunts, but Tommy refuses to let him ruin his buzz.

He laughs again, quiet and self-depreciating, and he half-hopes that the background sounds from the club will swallow it, and half-hopes that it won't, that his amusement carries over the noise just so it can piss Bubonic off to know that Tommy isn't shaken by his bullshit. "Sorry I don't have a riveting social life you can wreck."

"Maybe I should just sit back and watch you ruin your own life? What's next? Are you going to start a bar fight? Or you could find a girl who looks just enough like Lindy that you can pretend it's her when you fuck her in the restrooms."

There's a twist in Bubonic's tone, savage, almost grim, but Tommy is distracted by the way his voice curls around the fuck. It echoes in Tommy's gut like the beat of the music, almost a physical sensation, heavy and tense and too much, and it's— He can't—

He really needs to be done with this conversation right now.

"Yeah, maybe I'll do just that," he agrees, and then he disconnects the call and switches off his phone for good measure.

Bubonic doesn't get to have the last word this time.

But when Tommy mingles with the crowd of twisting sweaty bodies on the dance floor, he doesn't look for women who could pass as a dead ringer for Lindy under the strobing lights.

He scouts the club until he finds a guy who fits the image of Bubonic he has in his head. Someone curly-haired and slim, with long fingers that Tommy imagines might move quickly over a keyboard and that feel nice and firm digging into Tommy's skin when they hold onto him.

Tommy fucks him in the same back alley where Bubonic had him beaten up a few months ago, right under the security camera. Tommy leaves bruises on his skin and pins his wrists to the brick wall as he grinds into him, and all the while he imagines that somewhere behind a computer screen, Bubonic is watching them.

(IV.)

Catherine once told Tommy that failing to catch Bubonic was the biggest mistake the Cyber Crimes Unit ever made. He still remembers her exact words, because he heard the accusation loud and clear; it wasn't hard to tell that what she really meant that it's the worst mistake Tommy ever made.

And the kicker is, it's not even true. Yeah, he messed up their case against Bubonic, made the wrong choice to put pressure on the girlfriend, made the wrong choice again when he tried to use Lindy as bait. He owns that.

But staring at the horrifying new version of the Babylon portal and knowing that it only exists because Tommy let Hamish Stone get away the first time makes him realize that there's no such thing as a 'biggest mistake'; there are always worse ways to fuck up. He really hit the jackpot with this one.

Not that anyone at the office knows. His split-second decision to let Hamish wipe Babylon off the web – and along with it all the evidence that he was the mastermind behind it – remains between him, Connor and Hamish himself, but that doesn't make it easier to swallow down the bitter taste of guilt when he looks through the files connected to this new marketplace of depravity. And Hamish has been smarter this time. No way of connecting the site to him, no matter how hard they try. And they've been trying. Tommy's been turning every stone, chasing down every possible connection, only to run against walls. Dead end after dead end after dead fucking end.

Catherine ordered him to go home hours ago. Everyone else has called it a day, but Tommy keeps hoping that if he only looks hard enough, he'll find the piece of evidence that makes the difference. But it's late, and his eyes sting, and the words and figures are starting to blur the longer he looks at them.

The buzzing of his phone cuts though the silence of the empty office, making Tommy jump.

He frowns at the unknown caller sign, finger hovering over the screen. Bubonic has been conspicuously quiet since the night of Tommy's birthday, and Tommy's spent too many hours lying awake and worrying if his momentously stupid choice of hook-up at the club scared Bubonic off or if the radio silence was the quiet before the storm and Bubonic was preparing for something big. And now he's calling on a work night, which feels a different kind of invasive than when he's bothering Tommy at home.

But the ringing persists despite Tommy's indecision, and the only way to find out what Bubonic wants is to actually take the call, so that's what he does.

Bubonic's opening line immediately throws him for a loop. "Would you like some help connecting the dots?"

"What?"

Bubonic huffs, impatient. "Try to keep up, Detective. Your current case. The one you've been brooding over for the past week. All those late-nighters can't be healthy, and it's not like you have anything to show for it. If you ask me nicely, I could maybe be convinced to point you in the direction of that evidence you need."

Tommy blames his exhaustion for Bubonic's word choice registering as suggestive rather than taunting, prompting his mind to conjure up some distracting images of all the ways he could ask Bubonic nicely.

Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why would he even think that Bubonic's more likely to extend his help if Tommy went on his knees for him?

Actually, he can't really think of any scenario where Bubonic would offer his assistance to the CCU, full stop. Which begs the question what the fuck Bubonic is playing at.

"Why would you help us?" Tommy asks, suspicious. This has to be some kind of trap.

"You see, I owe Mr. Stone a favor."

"How do you even know—" he begins, but he puts two and two together before he even finishes the question. There is one obvious overlap between Bubonic's activity and Hamish, and suddenly the connection feels very straightforward. Tommy can't believe they didn't think of it before. "The party at IRL. Hamish was in on it all along."

"Well done, Tommy," Bubonic praises. Tommy knows it's mockery, but there's an uncommonly warm note of satisfaction in Bubonic's tone that feels like genuine approval, and it hits Tommy right in the gut and makes heat rise to his cheeks. "Maybe you're not just a pretty face after all."

He can't shake off the sense that he's missing something important, though. "Yeah, maybe. But I still don't get how does owing the guy a favor translate into helping us get him. That's pretty much the opposite of a favor."

"Do I really strike you as someone who enjoys owing people? And Mr. Stone is just the kind of person I would have enjoyed taking down, once upon a time. He thinks he has me right where he wants me. I would like to prove him wrong. You and your Cyber Unit are just a means to an end."

It makes sense. In a sociopathic, backstabbing kind of way.

"Remind me never to put you in a position where you owe me one."

There's no humor in Bubonic's breathy little chuckle. "Don't worry, Tommy. You're so deeply in the red, we're never going to be even."

Shit. Tommy swallows. That's—

He doesn't want to examine too closely how it makes him feel, so he quickly changes the subject. "So how do we shut down Hamish?"

"Just sit back and let me do all the work," Bubonic says.

Tommy doesn't understand what he means until the cursor on his computer screen starts moving of its own volition. Windows open in front of him in quick succession. The files they have on Hamish, the portal, a command terminal. Tommy keeps his hands off the keyboard and watches a string of code appearing, typed so fast that Tommy can scarcely keep up.

"You're in our system," he says, belatedly, as if it hadn't been obvious.

Bubonic hums. Tommy can hear him typing, the rapid-fire click-click-click of his fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'm in every system. I'm in the CCU. I'm in your laptop at home. I'm in your phone, and in your car, and in that fancy electronic lock system your landlord has graciously gifted you with." A pause, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone from aloof and matter-of-fact to pointed. "I'm even in the CCTV outside IRL. But you knew that."

Tommy closes his eyes. His stomach plummets, and he feels hot all over, his palms so sweaty that the phone almost slips from his grip.

I didn't know, he wants to argue.

He might have imagined that Bubonic was watching, might have wanted him to watch with stupid intoxicated recklessness, and afterwards he'd worried about the possibility in the sober light of day. But he didn't know. Not until now.

Admitting that – any of that – would only give Bubonic more ammunition, though, when he already has plenty.

Tommy forces himself not to let his apprehension show and hopes Bubonic is too busy right now to have eyes on him. "Since you hijacked our system, how about you walk me through what we got on Hamish?"

Bubonic laughs quietly. "As you wish, Detective Calligan," he says, pointedly agreeable. "We can talk about Mr. Stone, if you prefer."

(V.)

As the next anniversary approaches, the CCU is preparing for something big. Catherine spends two hours briefing the entire office and probably scaring some of the interns off Cyber Crimes for good, and she gives Tommy a stern lecture that makes him feel vaguely guilty that he's been keeping the string of anonymous calls a secret, while at the same time hammering home that it was definitely the right choice.

And then, on the big day, when the air in the office is thick with tension and anticipation, their system goes down.

Black screens on every desk, dead phone lines, not a single working cell phone on the entire floor. Even the fucking coffee machine won't work. It feels like the precursor to something worse, and Tommy is well-aware how wholly unprepared they are, despite expecting it.

Endless minutes trickle by and turn into hours, all their efforts to revive the system painfully fruitless, so all that's left to do is wait for the other shoe to drop. Sixteen hours of balancing the tightrope between boredom and anxiety, decaffeinated and high-strung, until at midnight every screen and device miraculously starts up again.

And just like that, it's over.

While they were offline, nothing terrible happened. No emergency they missed, no massive cyber attack they failed to prevent.

It's— a good thing. Of course it's a fucking good thing, Tommy's well aware of that. And yet the relief doesn't come. It feels too anticlimactic, too unlike Bubonic. None of the usual dramatics, no pointed mockery. Bubonic didn't even leave a calling card; for all they know, today's blackout could have been anyone's work. It could have been a fucking coincidence, except of course it's not.

On his way home, Tommy keeps checking his phone, waiting for a text at the very least. A barbed Happy anniversary, Detective Calligan. A call, perhaps, if he's lucky.

It doesn't come. Not until he's back home on the couch, too wired to sleep, flipping through the channels at 2am.

UNKNOWN, the screen says, just like Tommy thought – hoped, goddamn it – it would, and Tommy answers before the second ring. "Hello?"

"Detective Calligan." Bubonic sounds— different. Unfamiliar in a way Tommy can't place until he continues, voice lacking its usual crisp sharpness. "I apologize for the unim— the uninspired show today. I'm afraid that I haven't been up to my usual standards."

The words are dragging on, breathy, a little slurred.

Are you okay? Tommy wants to ask. It would be a valid question, he tries to tell himself. It's entirely sensible to be concerned about an unstable cyberterrorist's state of mind. But he can't shake the knowledge that he's less worried about Bubonic than he is worried for him, and that won't— He can't let himself go down that rabbit hole.

"How much did you have to drink?" he asks instead.

Bubonic lets out a high-pitched laugh. It crackles through the line, mirthless and unsteady. Yeah. Definitely drunk.

He doesn't answer Tommy's question.

Instead, he says, "I went to see her grave," and it leaves Tommy dazed and aching as if Bubonic had thrown a punch. He sits up and rubs his temples, and tries to come up with a good response. But Bubonic's still talking. "I know your friends at the CCU have been keeping it under surveillance. Hoping to catch me. Hoping to use a sentimental moment against me. So I made sure you'd be preoccupied today."

Truth is, they hadn't bothered with the cemetery in a while. It had seemed like a complete waste of time and resources, so they pulled the plug, figured Bubonic wasn't the type for sentimentalities. That maybe Bubonic didn't care enough to show up in the first place. What a load of bullshit. Everything Bubonic had done since they found her hanging in her cell was a testament to how much he fucking cared.

"I'm sorry," Tommy offers quietly.

He knows it's not enough, that it doesn't make anything better, that it's not going to alleviate his guilt or Bubonic's grief. He half-expects Bubonic to call him on it, viciously tearing into him with all that pent-up rage he's been barely holding in.

But Bubonic doesn't acknowledge the apology at all, like he didn't hear it. He abruptly changes the subject.

"I'm watching you, you know?"

Tommy sits up straighter, all senses alert. His gaze flickers around the room, searching, but there's nothing to see save for the flickering reflections from the TV and the shadows cast by passing cars out on the streets. Tommy never bothered scanning his place for bugs and hidden cameras, not even last year after Bubonic had it all cleared out. He never even thought about it before, but now that Bubonic has mentioned it, Tommy can suddenly feel the weight of his eyes following him.

He swallows. "Yeah? Right now?"

Bubonic hums in agreement. "Always. I told you, I'm everywhere."

Tommy imagines him, holed away in some secret high-tech hiding place, surrounded by half a dozen computer screens, and one of them streams a live feed of Tommy on his couch. Another screen shows his messy kitchen, the stairway, the empty bedroom that he barely ever sleeps in.

"Why?" he asks, because if there ever was a chance he'll get any answers from Bubonic it's probably now, with alcohol loosening his tongue. He means to ask what Bubonic is hoping to achieve, if he's after revenge or entertainment, but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, "What do you want from me?"

Bubonic doesn't respond right away, but Tommy can hear the soft, steady rustle of his breath against the microphone. The pause stretches, and Tommy has to fight the urge to get up and pace the room, forcing himself to relax. He leans back, sprawling, letting his head dip past the back rest of the cushions.

"I haven't decided yet," Bubonic says, words slow as molasses.

It's not an answer, and yet it's more telling than any answer he might have given.

(+1)

Tommy recognizes the figure leaning against the front door of his apartment right away, as soon as he rounds the corner of the staircase leading up to his floor. It's the guy he pulled a gun on back when Bubonic had made sure Tommy's loft got cleared out. He looks more put together now – nicer clothes, less fidgety – but even though it's been well over a year, the occasion had been memorable enough that Tommy remembers his face.

It doesn't explain what he's doing here, waiting for Tommy. He's probably not going to press charges after all this time. Maybe he decided that Tommy's linens weren't so bad, and he's here to ask if he can have them after all. Or he took something that he wants to return, not that it seems likely. Tommy looks him over for any indication of why he'd show up here, taking in the wry, lopsided half-smile on his face— the relaxed posture— the bottle in his hand—

Tommy frowns, his gaze snapping back up to the guy's face. His smile has curved into something dangerous.

"I'm allergic to roses, so I'm afraid the wine will have to do," he says, soft and low, nothing like his nervous babbling back when Tommy confronted him in his empty apartment. And Tommy knows that voice, has heard it through the speaker of his phone and in his dreams (nightmares, he mentally corrects himself, but he can't even make himself believe that all of them were bad) dozens of times.

"Bubonic."

How did he not realize before? It seems so obvious now. The same messy curls, the same piercing blue eyes, the same body type. Of course Bubonic had made sure to be there in person to witness Tommy's reaction to his shitty little stunt.

Tension drums through Tommy's body, his hands balling into fists, and he has to force himself to keep them at his side. He knows he should get out his gun, make an arrest. But it's his birthday, and he's been working late, and he's tired, and Bubonic has shown up with a bottle of red instead of hacking Tommy's car or ruining his case. Besides, he rationalizes, they probably wouldn't be able to make anything stick, even if he read Bubonic his rights now and brought him in. He might as well save himself the paperwork.

There's no trace of concern on Bubonic's face, like he's not worried about Tommy's reaction at all. His smile isn't wavering. "I thought it was time for us to meet properly. No masks. No pretense."

Tommy slowly unfreezes and makes his way up that final flight of stairs, one hesitant step at a time.

Bubonic doesn't flinch away. Not when Tommy comes up level with him at the top of the staircase, not when he approaches the door, not when his arms brushes against Bubonic as he deactivates the electronic lock.

"Come in then."

It feels bizarre to invite Bubonic into his home. Even more so because Tommy can't shake the awareness that it's only a formality. An elaborate, performative display of restraint. Bubonic never needed an invitation before. He's let himself in twice that Tommy knows of, and Tommy isn't foolish enough to believe those were the only times. They both know Bubonic could easily have waited for him on the couch if he wanted, and Tommy wonders why he didn't do just that.

It could be a trap. He almost expects something to blow up in his face when he opens the door. Expects to step through the doorway and find the place empty again or his belongings destroyed or his dog slaughtered, and the claws of panic sinking into his chest almost make him feel sick.

The door falls open, and Tommy is strung so taut that he forgets to breathe.

But then Boris comes trudging towards him, his paws heavy on the floorboards, nuzzling Tommy's leg insistently until the ice in Tommy's veins unfreezes.

Everything looks normal inside, nothing ambushing him from the dark. When Tommy switches on the light, it doesn't set off an explosion or reveal anything out of the ordinary. Just his apartment, the same way he left it this morning when he hurried off to work.

Behind him, he hears Bubonic step through the door. Boris greets him enthusiastically, letting Bubonic pet him without barking or shying away or snapping at him, like he knows him. Like he likes him, and Jesus fucking Christ, isn't that the kicker? Tommy always thought that dogs had good intuition when it came to people, but maybe he needs to revisit that idea if Boris thinks Bubonic is trustworthy.

There's something disconcerting about observing Bubonic with his dog. A sense of domesticity incongruous with who Bubonic is that Tommy is unable to shake as he watches him stand up and brush the dog hair off his pants. It's such a devastatingly normal moment, and Tommy can't reconcile it with the masked psycho laughing at him through a screen or the elusive specter they've been hunting for years now.

Something must be showing on his face, because Bubonic's eyes narrow when he turns his head towards Tommy, and his mouth twists into a snarl.

"Don't." Sharp, forbidding. Like Tommy's a computer and all it takes is one command to make him obey.

It doesn't work like that.

"Come again?" Tommy asks, playing dumb.

"Don't you dare turn this into something it isn't. Even you can't be quite that gullible, Detective Calligan."

He puts the bottle down on the kitchen counter, his hand clenching emptily when he lets go.

"Okay." Tommy nods, agreeable. Appeasing, as if he was following the protocol for a hostage situation. Or for talking someone down off a ledge. "Tell me what it is, then?"

Bubonic moves fast. One minute he's halfway across the room, the next he's in Tommy's space.

There's a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and his voice has gone frenzied. "I've wanted to kill you. I thought about it so— so many times. I wouldn't even have to lift a finger. Just let you bleed out on the sidewalk outside IRL. Make your car lose control and drive straight on into the traffic. I could have had you swatted and got your own team to take you down. Do you know how easy it would have been?"

His breath fans across Tommy's face, hot and frantic, agitated.

"Yeah, I know," Tommy says quietly. It's not like he hasn't thought about it before, how defenseless he is against anything Bubonic might want to do to him. It used to make him so angry, helpless rage layered over bone-deep fear.

His calm acceptance doesn't go down well. It only seems to fire up Bubonic's furor. "No. No, you don't. You have no idea how close I've come to obliterating you." His eyes are wide and dark, pupils blown, gaze locked with Tommy as if he's desperately trying to impress his murderous intention on him.

And Tommy believes him, he does. It's just—

"But you didn't."

He tries not to make it a challenge, which is fucking hard. He really hopes that, once Bubonic has calmed down, he'll appreciate Tommy's restraint, because he's so damn used to challenging Bubonic every step along the way that appeasement doesn't exactly come natural to him.

Bubonic has gone very still.

"No, I didn't," he echoes, softer than before. He looks at Tommy like he's seeing him for the first time. "Maybe I should have."

He doesn't say maybe I should, implying that the window of opportunity has already passed and it's too late now.

And Tommy— He gets it. He probably should have told Catherine sometime last year about Bubonic's calls. Should have worked harder to arrest him. Should maybe have taken a shot that day he had Bubonic at gunpoint. Because now he's never going to do any of that, just like Bubonic is probably not going to kill him.

"Guess you still aren't done with me," Tommy says, throwing Bubonic's own words back at him.

Bubonic's mouth slants into half a smirk. He seems to have regained his composure already.

Tommy can already hear the sharp-edged comeback that he knows is going to come, he can already see Bubonic step back and put distance between them, and his stomach churns. He doesn't want this to turn into another should have.

Before Bubonic can move away, Tommy leans in and kisses him.

He nips at the unforgiving curve of Bubonic's sneer until it softens, until Bubonic's mouth finally opens and he kisses back. And the thing is— It's nothing like Tommy thought it would be to kiss Bubonic, nothing like with the guy in the back alley, nothing harsh and bitter and furious. It doesn't feel like the inevitable violent culmination of something. It almost feels like a beginning.

Bubonic is the one who breaks away. He cranes his neck back and shakes his head with a smile, somewhere between mockery and self-depreciation.

"Happy birthday, Tommy," he murmurs, low, private, and it's even more intimate when his voice doesn't carry through a phone line, when Tommy gets to see the bright, sharp gleam in Bubonic's eyes and feel the flutter of Bubonic's pulse under his hand when he slides his hand around Bubonic's neck and pulls him into another kiss.