Chapter Text
Tom surprises himself with how easily he transitions into the role of asshole husband.
He doesn’t revel in it, at least not for more than a few minutes before the guilt and self-loathing kicks in, the memory of Shiv’s trembling breath filling his ears. He drowns out the sound with whatever distraction he can conjure up, today’s being a Minnesota Vikings game. Everyone thought him a basic bumpkin, so he may as well start acting like one.
Tom still goes through the motions, of course, every aspect of his very existence contingent upon his marriage. He and Shiv were still in one another’s proximity virtually all hours of the day, him vying for attention and her looking to reestablish her footing. With the acquisition in progress and DOJ investigation technically ongoing, Logan found himself bribing his two youngest children from resigning to maintain some image of family unity. Tom had hoped this victory would be enough to repair the damage done to her in Italy, the damage he allowed to be done to her, but instead he watched as Shiv retreated further into herself. She barely ate. She barely spoke. She was utterly exhausted, often nodding off on their evening commute. He wanted so badly to hold her in those moments, but she’d snap herself awake before he got the chance. How awful it must be to always operate on high alert.
Tom wonders if he should bring Shiv something to eat, check out the goings on of the home office she spends her weekends holed up in. Her and Mondale, the fucking traitor. Maybe he’ll tie a sandwich to his collar should Mondale deign to join the person generous enough to rescue his sorry ass five years before his red-headed stepmother showed up. He turns up the volume on the TV, comforted by the sound of midwestern accents.
His reverie is soon broken by the sound of a loud thump, followed by incessant barking. What the hell? He wills himself off the couch to check out the commotion, horror filling his chest as the contorted body of his wife comes into view. He throws himself to the ground.
“Shiv, sweetheart,” he jostles her shoulder, relieved by the fact that she was at least conscious. He cradles her head and instructs her to hold still in case of a spinal injury, a tip he likely learned from watching some stupid football game. Mondale’s barks turn to whimpers as he dials 911.
“What’s your emergency?” He hears the operator ask.
“It’s my wife. She, um, she fell down the stairs,” Tom chokes out, barely, before beginning to cry himself.