Wherever Tommy disappeared off to, he stays there all morning. You finish your coffee before running to the store for more eggs and a few other sundries. The groceries are put away and then you start to pull out ingredients and utensils, mixing bowls and your KitchenAid. It had been a present from Tommy over a year ago. He knew how much you loved to bake, had seen you drooling over the expensive appliance one day while out shopping for you can't even remember what. And so he got it for you, big shiny pink bow wrapped around it and waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you woke up one day. No reason, no occasion or holiday. He knew you wanted it so he got it for you. That was all the reason he ever really needed.
The thought makes you smile as you hum under your breath, though the undercurrent of anger is still there. How could someone that sweet, that thoughtful be silent for so long? You had sobbed when he left, cried for so many days straight that you had to ask for time off from work. And he had watched you as he walked away, your hands gripping onto his uniform for just one more moment, one more kiss, one more of his touches. How could he be so heartless as to not call, not write, nothing? So what if last night was the first time he told you he loved you? Does that make up for eight months of nothing?
No, you think to yourself as you start to measure out ingredients for the pie crust. You briefly consider not even making it, but dismiss the thought almost as soon as you have it. Not just because it usually goes the fastest of all the desserts that you bring when there's a barbeque at the Fernandez's, but because of what it means to Tommy. If you asked him, he'd say that you fell for each other over a pie. Not entirely true. You met over a pie. You only fell for each other after he was an insistent, stubborn ass that wouldn't take no for an answer for a week or two. The memory makes you chuckle, shaking your head as you cut the butter into the rest of the ingredients for the crust.
You bake for the rest of the morning, measuring, mixing, tasting. The anger ebbs and flows, sometimes you're so pissed that you stir a little too hard and something goes flying. Others, it feels like your chest is on fire at the warmth that's settled there because he's home, he's finally home.
But for how long? the voice inside creeps in on you. How long will he stay? His deployment was supposed to be for a year, why is he even back after only eight months? Shit, he's just on leave. How infuriating is it that you have to figure that out on your own? And where the fuck is he?
You finish stirring the brownie batter, dump it into the pan and throw the spatula into the sink. Goddammit. Where did all of this anger even come from? But you know, deep down. It was there all along. You were just too damn worried to feel it before. You finish off the baking pretty aggressively, clanging and crashing like you'd hear with a bad movie sound effect. Everything is put down with a little too much force, you have to re-measure things, and you have to wipe your eyes with the back of your hands too often to count. "For fuck's sake," you finally mutter before collapsing on the ground in tears.
You're late. A heave of frustration leaves you as you juggle the desserts you made, thinking you overdid it yet again. You had put off leaving as long as possible in the hopes that Tommy would come home first, but of course he didn't. Words cannot describe how pissed off you are that he's already here, looking three sheets to the wind when you walk in the house with your hands full. He's sitting on the couch, playing a video game with little man, and you don't even acknowledge him. Just breeze past him and start laying the treats you made out in the kitchen while you silently fume.
It's not a surprise when you feel his arms snake around your waist a few minutes later, pressing you against the kitchen counter, his lips on your neck and breath warm on your skin. You shrug him off, or at least attempt to. But he doesn't acknowledge it, just presses against you harder and you hate how fast your pulse thrums at the feeling. Hate how your breath starts to come faster as his hips press against you, his lips working their way up to your ear before taking the lobe in his teeth and gently pulling. "C'mon, babe, I said I was sorry," he whispers throatily, his voice at least an octave lower than usual. God, you missed him, missed this. No one could set you alight like Tommy. No one.
But you're not ready to let him off so easy. You're in the middle of a family barbeque, he wasn't about to lift your skirt up and fuck you in the middle of the kitchen. Though by the feeling of him starting to harden against your ass, he was at least considering it. So you decide to tease him a little, grinding your hips backwards against his until he's groaning softly in your ear. "You know what you're doin' to me, babe?" he breathed, his Pittsburgh accent heavy and drawing a shudder from you. "You know you're playing with fire, right?"
You turn to face him, smirking, legs spreading slightly to accommodate his form between them. "You think you're going to burn me right here, Tommy?"
"Keep toying with me and I might." He pressed against you harder, eliciting a unwanted moan. Angry or not, you were responding to him. And you wanted to smack him for it.
"Uncle Tommy, it's your turn!" little Manny's voice carried from the living room.
He turned his head away, just for a moment, presumably so that the little one could hear him better. "Sorry kid, one sec."
And then his mouth is suddenly on yours for the first time in eight months, desperate, harsh, yanking a whimper from you even though you try to swallow it. Tommy presses against you harder, grips your hips and pulls you against him as he growls, tongue slipping around yours until you're positively light-headed. When he nibbles on your lower lip, you lose it, groaning louder than you mean to as your hips grind against him.
"Uncle TOMM-MMY!"
There's an audible pop as he breaks the suction and pulls his lips away from yours, an unsolicited whimper escaping you at the end of the kiss. He grips your chin and forces you to look into his eyes, the blue/green that you love so much nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. "Later," he promises, planting one last kiss before pulling away and going back into the living room.
A/N - Thanks for sticking with me so far. Please review, they make me do a happy dance. Seriously.
