Title: A Better Man
Fandom: True Detective
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2185
Content notes: drunk makeouts and blowjobs
Author notes: Also for the bingo square "Blanket"
Summary: A missing scene from the night Roland let Tom sleep on his couch.



Roland knew damn well what he was doing when he gave Tom Purcell his home number. He read that needy, desperate look in his eyes and made the offer fully aware that sooner or later there would be a midnight phone call with a plea for help, for a ride because he was too drunk, for anything to make the pain die down for just a little while.

When the call came, it was actually from the owner of the Sawhorse, dragging him out in the middle of the night in the pouring rain to the bar, where he collected the drunk, sobbing mess that used to be a hard-working husband and father before all this shit happened. And though deep in his gut he knew it was a bad idea, Roland told Tom he could sleep on his couch that night, when the man turned to look at him with those haunted eyes and begged not to go home. "Just don't fuckin' puke on my floor," he said as he half-walked, half-hauled Tom to the sofa and laid him down there. "The bathroom's down that way, or there's a trash can if you can't make it that far."

Tom mumbled something that Roland hoped was agreement to those terms, his head already lolling back, loose on his neck, eyes half-closed. Roland sighed and got him a blanket, draping it lightly over his prone form. And then, for reasons that he told himself were mostly related to protecting the cleanliness of his living room, and not anything else, he poured himself a drink and sat down in the armchair to keep an eye on Tom as he slept.

He was on his third drink and fourth smoke when Tom started moaning in his sleep. It wasn't anything coherent - no words he could make out, just that keening sound like the man was having his heart ripped out. Roland wavered. No doubt Tom needed the sleep, he looked half-dead even when he wasn't drunk, but what good was it if he was wracked with nightmares? And then, he thought to himself, if he woke him up, he'd have to say why he'd been sitting there for going on two hours, just watching him like some fucking mother hen... or like a pervert, whichever.

Still, he couldn't take that noise. He stood and walked the couple of steps over to the couch, bending down to shake him awake, or at least get him to roll over and stop whining like a wounded dog. "Hey," he said, "it's okay." It wasn't okay, not even close, but he didn't know what else to say.

Tom's eyes opened and he reached up with one arm, fumbling for Roland's neck, trying to draw him down. "Please," he rasped, "I just need..."

Roland was startled, but he could still have pulled away. Tom wasn't overpowering him, wasn't even really begging him. The man could beg, he'd seen it before, and this wasn't that. It would have been easy, and probably a hell of a lot smarter, to stand up and tell him to go back to sleep, to look away from those dark, sorrowful eyes, walk to his own bedroom, and close the door. That's what a better man would have done, he guessed.

Roland wasn't that good a man.

He came down on top of Tom harder than he'd meant to, pulled into his circling arms like being dragged into a whirlpool. Tom gasped, air knocked out of him for a second, but he didn't let go, gripping hard at Roland's shirt, craning his neck up to reach him. Roland kissed him, feeling the brush of his mustache against his lips, tasting the copper sting of blood over the stale booze breath, knowing he couldn't claim to be any fresher and that it didn't matter. Tom moaned again then, not the mourning broken-hearted cry he'd made in his sleep, but something else, something ragged and hungry, but alive.

Tom tugged Roland's shirt out of the waist of his jeans, struggling with his belt buckle, clumsy with sleep and the leftover end of his drunken binge. Roland wasn't quite sober himself, and it took him a couple tries to push his own boots off. It wasn't graceful, but they kept grasping for one another, pulling open buttons and getting clothes out of the way as best as they could. Then there was the fucking blanket between them, and Roland had to get up for a moment just to toss it aside. Tom looked up at him longingly, shirt half undone and dark curls in a tangled mess, and Roland understood again that he was doing something wrong here, maybe even something dangerous. He got back down on that couch anyway, though, and finished unbuttoning Tom's shirt. Laying it open, he ran his hands over the soft hair there, the wiry muscles underneath, the jackrabbit heart behind it all.

"You done this before?" he asked, wanting a better idea of what he was setting himself up for.

Tom hesitated, looked away, and nodded once.

"Alright," Roland said. The cop in him longed to ask more - to know with who, and when, and whether his wife knew about it or not. But right now he didn't feel he ought to pry more than he already had - the man could have a few secrets, given how his life had been uprooted and turned over like a fallow field. "So you got some notion of what you're after here."

"Yeah," Tom muttered. "Some." He reached for the fly of Roland's jeans, unzipping it and working his hand inside. Roland's cock strained against the fabric of his briefs, and Tom grasped it, stroking its hot length and thumbing the damp spot at its tip as he tried to free it. Roland sucked his breath in sharply, and helped push his pants out of the way, managing to get them halfway down and then awkwardly kick them the rest of the way off. With that obstacle removed, it was easier for Tom to hook his fingers into the elastic waistband of his underwear and tug it down, drawing out Roland's dick and balls.

When he made contact, skin to skin, Roland couldn't hold back a low, throaty groan. "Fuck," he said, since it was the most coherent word he could choke out, and tried to get Tom's pants open too. He wanted to know that he wasn't the only one who needed this so bad it was like an ache in his gut. Getting his hand over top of the bulge in Tom's boxers, feeling that heat there, let him know that he wasn't alone in that. He struggled to get those layers of fabric out of the way, and Tom did what he could to help, lifting his ass to let Roland drag his pants down. The boxers were easier to remove, and that was all he needed right now - anything else could wait.

Once they were naked, Tom gasped, arching up underneath him, and stole another clumsy kiss. Roland pressed him back down into the soft cushions of the couch, his cock grazing against Tom's in a way that made them both draw in their breath, sharp and raw. He did it again, more deliberately this time, and Tom pushed back, grinding his hips against Roland's. It felt good, but he needed more. Roland reached between them, propping himself up against the back of the couch so that he could grasp both of their cocks and hold them against each other. That gave him the pressure, the friction that he needed, and Tom seemed to need it too. "Yeah, like that," he whispered, as though he couldn't bring himself to say it any louder.

"No one's gonna hear you," Roland told him. "It's just you and me. You be as loud as you wanna." He thumbed Tom's cockhead and was rewarded with a louder moan - not real loud yet, but it was something above a whisper at least. Sliding his shaft along the length of Tom's dick made him groan and respond with a matching thrust. Roland imagined what it would be like to fuck him, to see him squirm as he took it up the ass, and the thought helped get him even more worked up. But good ass-fucking - the kind where you might want to actually still be on speaking terms with the guy afterwards - needed a good deal more work, and more conversation, than either of them were ready for right now. Grinding their dicks against each other, handjobs, and a few sloppy kisses were about what they could both deal with, Roland figured.

In fact, Tom was getting more worked up by the minute. His hips were rocking back and forth in quick, eager thrusts, and his eyes were half closed, biting his lip in anticipation. "Come on," Roland urged him, stroking their cocks in unison together, feeling the slick dribble of precum that told him he was close. "Just let go, I can tell you need it so bad..."

Tom's mouth opened but no sound came out at first, just breathy sighs. He was so taut he was trembling, and Roland knew it wouldn't take much to nudge him over the edge. "I wanna see it," he told him, his voice low and intimate. "Wanna hear the sounds you make when you come..."

"Hhhuh," Tom gasped, and then louder, "Ahhhh!" His hips bucked like he was trying to throw Roland off, but he held on tight and felt the hot, sticky load gush over his hand. Tom whimpered through the aftershocks, and Roland kept holding him until he was well and truly done.

"I wanna get you off too," Tom said a minute or two later. He pushed Roland up and back, steering him so he had his head at the end of the couch where his feet had been a moment before, and then edged his way down between his legs. Roland was a little surprised, but didn't have any complaints when Tom started sucking his dick. He angled himself up on the arm of the couch so he could watch by the dim golden light, see the way it gleamed off Tom's dark curls and made the spit-slick head of his cock glisten.

Tom was better at this than someone who'd never done it before should be, which didn't surprise Roland by this point. Maybe he'd done it kneeling in a rest stop bathroom or in the alley outside a bar. Maybe he'd done it with guys whose names he'd never known. Maybe there had been a friend when he was a teenager, someone who could keep a secret. Roland was curious, and also knew that he had no right to ask. Besides, it wasn't like he wanted Tom to stop and answer. All he wanted right now was for him to keep going, keep doing that thing with his tongue, look up at him with those dark eyes, yeah, like that...

It had been months since anyone had touched Roland's dick but him, and the way Tom was sucking him, getting right down to the base like he wanted to swallow him whole, one hand playing with his balls and the other braced on the back of the couch... it was all too much. Roland managed to grunt a quick warning, "Fuck, gonna come!" Tom didn't pull back, but closed his eyes like he was saying a prayer, and swallowed every drop. He finally sat up, panting for breath, licking his lips and unable to look Roland in the face.

"Hey," Roland said when he could speak again. "That was, uh... it was good." He wasn't sure what to say, and everything sounded awkward. "Try an' get some rest. I'll still be here in the morning." He gathered up his clothes, tugging his underwear on so at least he wouldn't have to walk bare-assed naked into his bedroom, and passed the blanket back to Tom.

"Okay," Tom said as he took it and pulled it over his lap. His voice was raspy and low and he kept his eyes downcast.

Roland turned off the light and strode over to his bedroom, wrangling the cast-off clothes and tossing them into his laundry pile. He was about to fall into bed when something made him glance back out to the living room. Tom was still sitting there on the couch, not lying back down, not having gotten up, just sitting motionless, a dark shadow in the darker room. Roland stifled a sigh. "Or just fuckin' come in here," he called to him.

Tom looked up, surprised, and then got up, trailing the blanket that was around his waist. He was still unsteady on his feet, and moved slowly through the unfamiliar room in the darkness. Roland got him curled up in bed, then crawled in next to him. "It'll be okay," he said as they were drifting off to sleep. It was still a lie, but maybe a little bit less of one than it had been fifteen minutes ago.