Tom Wambsgans was a certifiable asshole. Degree and everything, Greg thinks.
xx
Greg has been here for ten minutes, and he's already been assaulted, probably concussed, and verbally belittled. He knows this family, vaguely. He hasn't seen most of them since he was a child. It's been at least a decade since he remembers seeing them, and while he remembers names, it's not as easy to place them to faces. The kids have been called into the sitting room with Logan, and the only other family he's left with are Marcia, Logan's latest wife, Kendall's wife … ex-wife? … and this guy that was with Shiv. He doesn't know him yet. Doesn't know if he's someone that he's going to need to know yet either. (Remember what Mom said, he reminds himself, he's here on a mission, and he needs to keep his eye on the ball. Were all Roy "parties" so contentious?)
They're how long into lunch when Logan announces it's time to play a game. It's not a major stretch for Greg to feel like he's stumbled into some kind of creepy scary - movie esque horrorshow. This is how they all start, after all, right? Idyllic, maybe a little tense, some uncanny valley shit, then some old guy shows up and says "I want to play a game", and the next thing you know, you're locked up in a bathroom torture chamber with some stranger. (If it came to that, all Greg knows for a fact is that he doesn't want to end up trapped with a Roy. That doesn't leave him many options, though, does it? Well, worse people to be locked up with than Shiv's boyfriend, right?)
Turns out, it's a baseball game. Okay, that's doable. The idea doesn't scare him as much as he was worried it would — after all, he used to be on the softball team when he was a little girl back in middle school. It's been a few years, of course, but he knows his way around a baseball diamond, and he's still got himself a handy throwing arm. He'd be absolutely perfect for an outfield position if he wasn't so air-headed half the time.
Tom — that's his name, Tom … Remember that, Greg — catches him in the outfield first, as the two teams switch sides. It's all laughter and smiles, and everyone seems to be having a great time, from the children that are running the bases, even to the staff that's been relegated to the sidelines. Tom greets him with a grin, calling him the new kid, and telling him that he's got his eye on him. Greg doesn't blush.
He doesn't know what to make of Tom. He doesn't feel like the other Roys — and perhaps that's because he's not. Not yet, at least, he hasn't managed to marry his way in yet, far as Greg can tell. There's no ring on his finger, none on Shiv's, that he's seen. And he gives off this strange vibe that Greg can't quite place … Watching and listening to him speak, it almost reminds him of himself, when he was in high school, shoved into a theatre class, all lanky limbs and stage fright, sticking out like a sore thumb, but doing his goddamned best to make his acting look believable. It never worked. Tom acts like he's relaxed, like he was made to fit in with the sharks that are the Roys, but there's a strain behind each word, his laughter feels forced, his jokes are stilted, and even his insults feel like they've been stewed over too long before Greg finally gave him a chance to let it all out.
Then Tom hits on him.
Or he doesn't?
Greg's never been so goddamn confused in his life.
(For the record, he probably would have kissed Tom. But that's a little fun fact that's going to get killed dead in the water, and never be allowed to resurface. There's no reason to unpack that anytime soon.)
xx
When Greg was a little kid, he used to believe in fairytales. He was always a fan of all the romance, the adventures, true love and it's kiss, the sickly - sweet happy endings of all those love stories. He knew well enough, obviously enough, that his own mother never got that. She never had that happily ever after: her knight in shining armor walked out on her and their child, and no one ever swept in to make it all better again. Still, that didn't stop little Greg from his deep - rooted dream that one day, when he was older, he'd meet his own Prince Charming, who would sweep him off his feet, who would treat him to his own happily ever after.
Greg grew up.
He doesn't believe in "true love" anymore, and he knows that royal families are just as corrupt and fucked up as any other — he wonders if, technically, his own family counts as a fucked up royal one. They got the first three letters down easy enough, anyways. They're definitely fucked up, and nearly every member is power - hungry enough that he might as well consider himself part of a Shakespeare history in the making.
It isn't that he's given up on love. God, no, he's not even thirty yet, he's still got plenty of time left to find a man to spend the rest of his life with. As it stands, he's perfectly content with the very odd Tinder or Grindr dates; long - term relationships aren't exactly something he's found himself especially concerned with at the moment.
It's that he's given up on the idea of someone sweeping in to save him. Someone that will see him, see all of Cousin Greg, and think that he's someone worth protecting, worth going to bat for, worth being given a Happily Ever After... of his own. He's alright with that. He doesn't need the big fairytale, storybook, fantasy ending. He doesn't even need to find his "Prince Charming", either. All he wants is someone to look at him, and feel warmth. Someone to treat him with kindness, with respect, someone who's just as happy to see him, to be with him, and to love him, as he does them. It wouldn't hurt either if they were someone who would touch him with gentle hands, kiss him with soft lips, look at him with warm blue eyes … well, now he was getting a little too picky, wasn't he?
Really, it's a good thing he has no interest in deluding himself that happy endings still exist — even if they did, it wasn't as if Tom was going to give him any of that. It's not exactly like he has a whole lot of options here under the Roy roof. Just about damn near the entire family has made their disdain for him already painfully obvious, but Greg does his best to pretend he doesn't see it. Playing the oblivious idiot is a role that he performs extremely well. Playing the callous, unafraid, unbothered asshole, however, is not one.
He does his best to hide his hurt, averts his eyes, and snaps his mouth shut when it becomes obvious that even the oblivious fool is becoming excruciatingly unbearable for the rest of the family to withstand. Greg had had the audacity to question Tom if anyone had spoken about him, and the personal disgust he felt towards himself for asking such a stupid thing must have shown clearly on his face. It's the first time since they'd met that Tom softened, lowering his voice, and looking at him with a gentle expression. Surprisingly warm blue eyes meet self-pitying baby blues, and give him an offer: "When you figure all this out. Come in and see me. And I'll look after you." Once again, Greg's comically large doe eyes must've given his wariness away, because Tom insists again, that he is, in fact, serious. He'll take care of him.
Greg's at a loss. The stupid grin on his face is too real, and he can't help but feel warm blush blooming across his cheeks, and cozy feeling in his heart. He excuses himself with a genuinely heartfelt thank you, and finds himself unable to look Tom in the eyes any longer. What's wrong with you, dude?
Prince Charmings may not actually exist beyond the pages of his childhood storybooks, but he's got a Tom Wambsgans ready to go to bat for him. That's more than enough for him.
xx
Yet another reason why Greg will never make it as a Roy: he doesn't handle guilt well.
The moment he makes it back home following the RECNY ball, Greg finds himself cradling his toilet, emptying everything he's eaten and drank — which, admittedly, wasn't much — down the bowl. This isn't the first awful thing he's done since he's become employed at Waystar, but he'd say this is the worst.
Tom trusted him. Tom was the one who was looking after him. Tom had shared this disease with him, and infected him, and was going down on a sinking ship and was more than ready to drag Greg down with him kicking and screaming and drowning.
He was taught to tell the truth, never to lie. To keep his head up, to wear his heart on his sleeve, and to always tell the truth no matter the consequences. Waystar Royco took those life lessons and flushed them down faster than Greg's dinner tonight.
Tom had trusted him, and Greg took that trust and spat on it. He threw it on the ground and snuffed it out with his heel. He took advantage of the one person in this god-forsaken family that saw anything in him, however small and inconsequential, and put it towards his own personal gain. Jesus Christ, what is happening to him?
He didn't even agree with the Roys on this one! Not that he ever really agreed with the Roys on anything, but he was on board with Tom. Tom wanted to do the right thing: end the cycle of lies, of deception, of abuse and cover - ups. Be transparent, be open, and offer the victims a chance to come forward without fear of retribution. Instead, Greg stopped it himself, told Gerri about what Tom was planning, and let her and the rest of the fucking twisted family stop any possible real justice from happening.
If Tom ever found out, he would hate him. He would never forgive him. Does it matter? Does it really matter, at all, when Greg knows he'll never forgive himself either?
Greg really was a fucking piece of shit.
xx
It isn't always spite, hatred, anger, whatever, between them. There are times, increasingly more, but still far and few between, that Greg will find himself at his desk, with Tom standing beside him. Tom will ask a question, Greg will turn his screen towards him, solitaire in an incognito window tucked away quietly into the taskbar, of course, and Tom will laugh. Sometimes, at least. Sometimes he'll sigh, and offer corrections. Sometimes Tom'll grin, clap Greg on the shoulder, only a half-hearted insult being offered: that's when Greg knows he's done something right.
Other times, Tom will call him into his office. Greg will, inevitably, follow the instructions, head down, tail tucked between his legs, fully expecting to be chewed out over some marginal oversight he's made. Maybe he was half a second late to a deadline, the coffee he'd brought Tom that morning was three degrees cooler than boiling, he had a few scuffs and stains too many on his shoes, he didn't sound cheery enough in his "good morning!" to the board member that he shared an elevator with — with Tom, it could be anything. He wasn't about to delude himself into believing that he could predict the man. (Everytime he thought he knew what Tom was going to do, a wrench was thrown into his feebly carved - out image of Tom. He's stopped trying. No he hasn't. He's simply stopped allowing himself to be surprised when he was wrong.)
And sure, that's exactly what happens — most of the time. There are other days, though, when Greg'll let the glass door close gently behind him, and Tom will hand him a folder, or a stack of papers: a job to do. Very rarely will it be accompanied by a compliment, or praise (at this point, Greg's still keeping a tally of kind, unsolicited, words that he's been offered. He can still count them on both hands.), but the gesture always brings a stupid grin to his face nonetheless. It's nice to feel wanted, needed, trusted. Sure, there's some level of trust to be expected between a boss and his assistant, this isn't anything so Greg-specific that he feels the need to write home about. Yet, these are some of the moments that Greg cherishes the most: moments that see Tom trusting Greg enough not to fuck something up. Neutrality is not their default language, but Greg will be damned if he doesn't soak it up every time he gets the chance.
xx
He's going to die here. Greg is going to die tonight, and Tom is laughing.
Tom had caught him mid - act, with a laugh, daring him to do it. Fear and peer pressure are powerful motivators, and Greg doesn't know what he's more scared of: making himself look more pathetic around Tom, angering Logan, or being the reason that Kendall overdoses. Two lines. It's only two lines, he can handle this — Tom calls him a "total coke whore," and Kendall looks at him with incredulity staining every feature. When Greg sits up, leans back, Kendall's already begun to skulk off, but Greg can't offer a command for him to stop, let alone a shutdown of Tom. Ever the master linguist, all Greg can choke out is a gurgle.
Everything burns. "I hope you don't die!" Tom jokes, and Greg isn't fully certain if it's the coke kicking in already or the alcohol he was trying not to drink too much of that prompts the lurch in his stomach. Seeing the spiteful bemusement in Tom's face, especially as Greg's eyes are blown wide, knowing what a fucking mess he's proven himself to be, certainly doesn't help.
Everything surrounding the Roys frightens Greg, intimidates him. It's the way that one family can have so much goddamn power to ruin a life, to ruin lives, that unnerves him. How a family can be so far removed from basic human decency that they can hear about assaults and deaths and accidents, and just write them off as "NO REAL PERSON INVOLVED" … how they have no moral grounding that they'll just rip apart other companies, other families, and treat the pieces as little playthings. (How very Pretty Woman of that reference, Greg. How very Vivian and Edward he was feeling with Tom in this moment, some twisted version where instead of seducing the wealthy, detached businessman, Vivian got high and went into cardiac arrest while Edward was too busy laughing at her to care. I want the fairytale, my ass.) For the first real time, Greg thinks he's actually petrified. He feels nausea start to settle in, as his heart rate picks up. Tom's laughter feels miles away, mocking, vicious, and yet: it's his grounding. Reminds him that he's still here, he hasn't cut it yet. He's stuck with two thoughts, simultaneously: one, if he dies here, tonight, like this, is Greg going to be considered an NRPI? Even with the Roy name (kind of) under his belt, is he really any more than a nameless face to the family? Is that what Tom was thinking as he laughed at Greg's panic? And two, how the fuck did Kendall do SIX LINES of this?
"I hope you don't die!" Tom had joked, and if nothing else, all it managed to do was make the hyperventilating kick in.
Greg's had friends tell him that coke made you feel powerful. Made you feel like you had energy, that you were wide awake, you felt like you could do fucking anything. Right now, Greg just feels like he wants to run to the bathroom and empty the entire contents of his stomach. Hell, maybe he'll listen to Tom, vomit out his entire bloodstream while he's at it too. He hasn't had a proper anxiety attack in some weeks now, but he thinks one is coming up real soon, and he doesn't know if he's ready to deal with a cocaine - high - induced attack. Especially not in front of Tom.
He can handle this. What's two lines of coke and a little alcohol, anyways? It's fine, isn't this the whole point of, like, Wolf of Wall Street? Sex, and booze, and drugs? Except there's no men here he's really interested in fucking, he's not nearly drunk enough to have been prepared for this, and he didn't want to take the drugs in the first place. (He also fell asleep ten minutes into that movie, so this entire comparison is completely moot.)
Greg reaches out to Tom to steady himself. At first, it looks like Tom is ready to shrug him off, fully prepared to make a smart remark about Greg not being able to handle it. He wouldn't be wrong. But Greg thinks that maybe, there's just a flash of softness in Tom's eyes, something there that recognizes how truly panicked Greg is at this moment. For whatever reason, Tom lets Greg hold onto his shoulder, lets him breathe deep, heavy sighs, trying to catch his breath. As if that would stave off the rapid pulse.
He's still fucked up — worse than he thinks he's ever really been in his life, but with Tom there, helping him keep his head above water, he's a little less scared. He thinks he might be okay.
That is, until Tom does finally push him off, makes a joke about how Greg already lost Kendall again, and stalks off to go find some girl to chat up, leaving Greg alone in his little personal Hirsch-Hell.
If he dies here tonight, he's going to kill Tom Wambsgans in the afterlife.
xx
Greg's ties are yet another series of embarrassments for Tom. At least, Greg figures this must be the case, considering the looks that he gets when he tries to change things up. One look through any given floor at Waystar, and you're sure to see a sea of black, gray, navy. Ties are all solemn, neutral patterns against neutral solids. (If you asked Greg, which no one ever would, it's a little depressing.) He'd say it felt a little suffocating, a little difficult to stand out, but he'd be reminded that he towers above every single person in the building, let alone his floor.
He uses a coffee - stain on his (most commonly worn) red tie as his excuse.
The first time, it went over with very little of a hitch. A nice solid tie, a little more on the expensive side — who pays twenty - five dollars for a tie?! — simple and clean, no rips, tears, stains, or blemishes to be found. It's purple, and if he's called out for it, Greg will rattle off what he read on google: confidence, luxury, royalty. All things a Roy should display and express, right? It goes unnoticed by everyone except Tom, whose eyes catch on the offending piece of fabric for little more than a moment, lips twisted in disgust. If it really bothers him that much, he doesn't say anything. Greg takes that as a hesitant green light to keep on his way.
The second time, about a week later, it's a very gentle tiptoe into patterns. It's a plaid tie, which in itself is not so damning a look, until the color is taken into account: green, and a rather bright hue at that. He thinks it looks nice, that it compliments his eyes (whatever that means). It isn't something that people seem to notice. It isn't as if people are particularly interested in what Greg is wearing. In fact, the only person who drew any attention to it was the pretty receptionist he spoke to every morning, at it made her smile too — "a nice pop of color," she'd called it, and Greg felt like he was on Cloud Nine all day. This time, again, Tom sees it, disgust written clearly on his face. At one point, Greg catches him with the tie between his fingertips, and he thinks that Tom is inspecting it (the fabric, the touch, the pattern) but Tom swipes a thumb across the tie, mutters something about Greg needing to invest in a fucking lint - roller, and the issue was dropped. Another success.
It's the third time, Greg's boldest attempt, that he thinks was the final straw for Tom. It was a cute tie, one given to him by a friend a few years back — back when he was still in college. It was brown, something his old friend Google told him was acceptable for work (something about nature, and friendliness. Greg really couldn't care less.), and was speckled with the adorable art of tiny rubber ducklings. It was as novelty as a tie could get, but it made him smile nonetheless.
Tom clearly didn't feel the same.
No, this was yet another mortifying moment amongst the many in his little library of misery. Tom calls him into his office — at least there's no questioning what awful offense he's committed this time — and wastes no time in insulting the latest addition to his work wardrobe. All sorts of slights are thrown around: from the lighter impacting 'ugly', 'cheesy', 'disaster', to more biting ones, like 'fucking horrendous', or that it made greg look like an 'unpaid whore'.
The last one was totally out of line, too. Not that Tom cared.
Not that Greg really cared too much either.
Greg thinks, if you asked Tom what Greg's natural disposition was, you might get one of a number of answers: empty, airheaded, stupid, useless, confused. Confused was right, and when Greg leaves Tom's office, face hot and flushed, a slick new black tie fastened tightly around his neck, he can't really think of too many other times where he's felt just so confused as now. Through the whole ordeal, Tom's mouth had never eased up once, attacking his suit, his tie, his ability to pick and wear both. Either. His hands, however, were uncharacteristically gentle, replacing the novel monstrosity with one that easily cost four times the price his did. Tom's eyes had focused on every measured move, even though it must have been second nature to him by now. Greg's eyes were trained on Tom: his face, his hands, the deft movements of someone with years of experience over him.
Mostly, though, Greg found himself caught on Tom's almost delicate features. It wasn't often that he allowed himself to really just … look at his boss, to take in tired eyes that must have once held some brightness at some point, soft lips that were pressed firmly together in concentration, smooth hands that held Greg's tie and touched his neck with such feather - soft touches as if anything harsher might bruise and shatter the assistant where he stood. These observations reminded him why he never let himself get caught up seeing Tom.
This might prove to be a problem.
xx
Despite the act he puts on, Greg isn't stupid. He can see the way that guy looks at Shiv. He can see the way she looks at him. (He recognizes it — it's the way he's caught himself looking at Tom once, when he couldn't tear those baby blues from Tom's face, in his office, just inches away from him … not the time, Gregory.) Worse, he knows Tom has had to see it too. This guy's not exactly subtle, his hand constantly at the small of Shiv's back, always stealing her away — Gil, he says, work, she claims.
He doesn't remember his father all that well, but he knows well enough this wasn't far off from what happened then. Change the year, change the gender, change the party, but the gesture and the concept is still exactly the same.
He only hears part of it. They speak in hushed tones so no one else can hear, because it would be fucking stupid to speak so freely here of all places. Greg had stepped out to smoke — a cigarette, not weed this time. Last thing he needs is to come back in, smelling like a dispensary. He's still on his first drink, so he knows he's completely sober when he sees this guy's hand reach out towards Shiv's ass, and the playful, not offended way she smacks it away.
Greg feels sick, feels like he's just been hit by a truck, and even if he couldn't let Tom tell the world their secret, he can't hold this one in himself. He knows the bitter way his mother still talks about his dad, how it's not who he left her for but how he left them that colors the barbs she'll throw at a man who probably hasn't thought about them as a unit since they were all under the same roof. Greg thinks about those fairy tales and Prince Charmings he used to dream about as a child, and he knows he needs to say something to Tom before he makes a mistake he can't take back.
But when … Caroline, right? When Caroline asks him how long he gives it, Greg nearly drops his drink. He wonders, desperately, if someone else — if Shiv's fucking mother saw what he saw. But he finally catches Tom, baby blues to warm ones, and Tom gives him a smile, a thumbs up, and Greg's goddamn heart breaks. This family's made him do a lot of things he's never wanted to, but nothing under the Roys has made him feel as shitty as this has. Greg plays the idiot again, offering a grin and a wave back. He can't tell him here — in a crowd of people like this. It's cruel.
Greg downs his drink in one go, and searches for a refill. Someone has to look after Tom, right? He wishes there was someone to look after his mother … someone to look after him.
Greg makes friends easily enough, at least, the kind that you hang out with for the night, maybe a day or two, and then never see again. He doesn't use names, he doesn't say who he's talking about, but over a joint, he pours out his heart to his new friend. This guy's advice is fucking useless, and Greg doesn't feel any better having shared his secret with someone else. The only thing he takes away from this conversation is that he owes it to Tom to tell him the truth.
Tomorrow is going to be a shitshow.
Tom goes for a run every morning. So does Shiv, but that encounter is the last one he's looking forward to now. By a sheer stroke of luck he manages to actually intercept Tom on his run, meeting him in the snow-capped hills of the middle of nowhere. Tom greets him with a grin, the proud face of a man completely in love, just counting down the hours to his wedding. Greg can't quite tell if it's the hangover or the lack of sleep or Tom's unbridled joy that makes him feel like he's about to hurl. He thinks maybe it's all of the above.
The moment Greg starts to speak, the smile is gone from Tom's face. He has to know what's coming. The way Tom stops, how his body language shifts from that faux power stance, open and aggressive, to almost imperceptibly scared, very obviously angry, like a caged cat ready to pounce … he has to know. Sure enough, Greg can feel the hitch in his breath, in his speech as he stumbles out a confession: I think Shiv is — "No." — I think Shiv is having an affair.
You're wrong, it was just a misunderstanding, you're wrong, no, I don't want to know what you saw, because it was just a misunderstanding, shut up, shut the fuck up, Greg, shut up. The shove in the mouth is unexpected, but the way that Tom lashes out at him with a slap stings worse. Tom's hands are on Greg almost immediately after, despite a pleading, "What the fuck, man? I'm trying to help you!" Tom doesn't hit, doesn't punch, but he shoves. He shoves, and he shoves, and he pushes until Greg's on the ground.
There's a final, sharp, SHUT UP spat at him, before Tom runs away.
Greg is left laying on the ground, in the snow, and he can't bring himself to stand up. He lets the icy wet snow seep into his pants, into his coat, past his shoes into his socks. He lays there in his own guilt and misery until every part of him is enveloped in what feels like wet, icy, hell. He hates himself with a passion he's never felt so intensely before. He doesn't know how long he lays here before he finally wills himself to sit up. Greg rises, slowly, trying to ease himself into a standing position. Fine, it's fine. He told Tom, and if Tom doesn't want to believe him, then it's not his problem.
Greg takes two steps forward before he finds himself throwing up his guilt, his anger, his hatred, all onto the side of the road.
xx
Greg's known he was gay since he was a kid. Well, that's not entirely true. He didn't know he was gay, exactly, just that he liked boys. Boys were pretty, boys were stupid, and mean, and they pulled on his pigtails to get his attention and snapped his bra straps to rile him up. Boys were rough, and rowdy, and they were everything little Greg was not, on the outside, and even on the inside, while he related to them more than any of the girls, he was a sweet soul, a bit of a momma's boy, his head in the clouds and stuck in daydreams and fairytales. Anything that would provide an escape from the shitscape of his day - to - day life.
When he pictures his own wedding, he doesn't imagine anything even remotely similar to this. No English castle, no extravagant service, no big reception. He sees only one way his own wedding will play out: in a courthouse, with two or three witnesses — his mother, maybe his groom's parents. He'd like Tom to be there, but judging by that morning's events, he doubts Tom'll want anything to do with him ever again.
It's fine, after all, things rarely ever go to plan after all, do they?
The wedding is nice, it's massive, opulent, excessive, every trademark of a Roy. It makes Greg a little sick, but that's nothing new … he stands alongside the groomsmen, and doesn't know where to look. He's afraid to look at Shiv, because he knows he'll glare, angry and bitter. He's afraid to look at Tom, else he be caught staring, be caught with sad doe eyes, instead of the warm cheery gazes everyone else gives the lovely couple. So he looks towards them, focuses on the wall behind them. Tries to think of his own future wedding, maybe, of a life where Greg saw wrong, where Tom's getting his happily ever after today, where at least one person in this goddamn family has something good happen to him.
But Greg's not an idiot, and he doesn't miss the look that Shiv and her boyfriend share when she and Tom walk down the aisle. He does his best not to dwell on the look that he and Tom share, distant, warm enough to pretend there was no hatred there on Tom's side, cheerful enough on Greg's to pretend that his heart didn't shatter with every step the happy, married, couple took as they exited the church.
Greg swallows the bile growing in his throat, and blinks back the anger (now solely directed at himself. Just at Greg, and no one else) just as easily.
Happy endings were total bullshit anyway.
