#idk their ship name or what nngrgn

[wander-over-the-words]

ik you just got into it but: 🎶 for mafia 🤭?

Send me emoji(s) and I’ll write a drabble 🎶 Dancing Another instance of me being told to write a drabble and replying “word count who?” nrgnrgn This one got away from me a little, but it’s still short, so fuck it.  First Mafia fic. So. I hope it’s okay heh

The dancing - if you can even call it that - is not really planned and not really intentional.

It’s just that it’s the first time he sees Sam - really sees him, not just from across the room, not just surrounded by the other fellas, not just out of the corner of his eye as he’d driven through the streets of Lost Heaven, but really sees him - since the night at the farm, with the ambush and the shootout and the truck chase. When they’d gotten to the doc, Sam’s own assurance that he’d be okay had been the crowbar needed to wrench Tommy away from him.

The doc had worked his magic, but healing takes time, and so Sammy’s kinda shuffling as he enters Tommy’s apartment after hours, in the disguise of night. He and Tommy had put on tough facades when walking here from the car, like Sam’s here for business, not pleasure. Usually, they don’t go near each other’s places for their, ah, rendezvouses, but this ain’t like that.

The second the door shuts, Tommy’s switching on the radio to cover up any talking, and then he’s looking Sam up and down, taking in the way he can’t stand with his spine completely straight cause of his wound, the way he still winces when he moves. He’s already got half a bottle - courtesy of the Don - inside him to try and cope. He looks better than he did in the back of that truck, he’s cleaned up and proper again, but with that pain in his face, Tommy thinks he still looks like hell.

There’s a rush of adrenaline, leftovers from that night, and Tommy lurches forward, takes Sam into his arms and hugs him. It’s hard not to squeeze him tight.

Sam’s surprised, if the way he grunts is any indication, but he understands. It takes a moment, then his hands come up, rest on Tommy’s shoulder blades. Head bows, to rest his brow on Tommy’s shoulder.

They stand in silence. Tommy feels like he can finally breathe easy.

There’s something real pretty playing on the radio - Tommy’s mind is a little too far away to take in a name or lyrics - and Tommy finds himself swaying Sam in his arms. Too gentle to be noticeable at first, then gradually more comfortable, ‘til they look like the type of couple you could put on a postcard, the kind a young gal dreams of lookin’ like on her prom night.

Almost makes up for not being able to go dancing together, out in public, like Tommy would like (he bets he and Sam could cut a hell of a rug together). Almost. 

They’re there even after that pretty tune fades and the presenter starts talking about the news, thoughts empty but arms full; truth be told, Tommy’s not sure how long they spend softly swaying in place like that, but it comes to an end when Sam’s voice is muffled against his coat.

“Tom.”

“Yeah?”

“This here’s real nice, but, y’know…I really need to sit down now.”

There’s a beat, then Tommy huffs a laugh and pulls back to see Sam’s smile and hear his own soft chuckle. Don’t really know what they’re laughing at, they’re just sorta…happy, y’know?

“Right,” Tommy says, moving to help guide Sam to a chair, “sorry.”

As they go, Sam mutters, “We’ll pick that up later, though. Some other time.”

Tommy can’t help the grin as he replies, “Oughta be more careful with your words - I’ll be holdin’ you to that now.”