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Tamsy and Tomme.
The irony of their names being so similar wasn't lost on Tomme. Ever since she had joined the cleaners it had caused her unexpected issues. Often it happened when the other Cleaners would report to the team on their com-devices. For some reason, Tamsy and Tomme’s names tended to blur together on group calls in a way that made her temples throb. Maybe it was the fact that the others called Tamsy Tams, like some kind of house cat, or that when they called for Tomme it was so rare that people thought they must have misheard, and it was Tamsy being called all along.
More times than not, it actually was Tamsy who was being requested to meet for mission briefings, conferences, or select missions. He was a giver, and a damned good one at that. Tomme knew that, and didn’t take it personally. Well, not really.
She was only truly annoyed when Semiu or Gris called for her, asked something from Tomme, and Tamsy responded instead of her. Now that really pissed her off.
It wasn’t like Tomme knew Tamsy Caines enough that this could be a running joke for them. To her, he was an elusive member of the cleaners with long hair, sharp eyes, peculiar piercings, and a large scar that branded half his face. Tomme ruefully knew the finer details of the man, deciding to blame documenting his features as part of her job, rather than a personal interest. Other than their most recent mission to the desert where they had met Amo, Tomme had never seen Tamsy in action, and honestly would be fine never seeing him in any capacity.
Actually, Tomme made it a personal mission of hers to avoid Tamsy on a daily basis at the base. She had no affiliation with his team, his missions, or even his select group of supporters. They were perfect strangers. The thought of seeing him in unconventional ways made her skin crawl, because, like why would she be interested, anyways? Tamsy had never taken a moment to talk to her or interact. He was one of those cleaners that had the incorrect belief that supporters were like children: better seen and not heard.
“Tams, we need you for a debriefing in 10 minutes," Enjin’s voice was pretty curt, his smooth voice radiating from her neck piece, “Riyo you should come too. It’s about the princess in the tower.”
“Got it,” Tamsy responds, “Give me 15.”
“Tomme, we’re meeting in medical ward two to go over supplies and stock. Come by when you can,” Frollo’s voice rings out.
Just as Tomme is about to respond, Tamsy’s smooth voice rings out again, “I’ll be there after the meeting.”
“Annoying,” Tomme mutters, placing down her pencil, leaning back in her chair. She puts her hand to her collar, teeth gritting. “I’ll be there in a bit, Frollo.”
Currently she was sitting in her room at her desk, fingers playing absently with the pages of her beloved journals, now in irritation more than anything else. Her room was filled with them. Documentations of trash beasts, medical procedures, locations, maps, dead zones, hell, even information on the cleaners employed as well.
When she had taken the role of field documenter, she had never imagined how invested she would be. There was something powerful with documenting new things, making a record that could be kept, shared, analyzed, and passed around. The boss was kind enough to leave her with all of her original files, having the other supporters transfer information into a secondary book for the others to use.
The book that she was using to document the Cleaners and their Vital Instruments was her most precious, and probably the most valuable of her belongings. It was the book that was always on her person, carried with her as precisely as if it was her own Vital Instrument. Thumbing the pages, she hated that she had started a new section about Tamsy Caines, that polite, pompous, sauvy, infuriating man.
Tomme bites her lip as she finishes sketching his hair tassels, contrasted against the large spindle that housed the curious blue strings that were his Vital Instrument. Tomme hated that she loved the way the string had turned into intricate webs, filling Amo’s tower like an explosion, capturing everything.
That’s all she loved, nothing else related to Tamsy. He had become more tiresome to her since the conclusion of their mission, despite it being days now since their successful return. In a way, the whole ordeal had been surreal, watching Tamsy and Zanka take on the other cleaners. Tomme had watched the fight from her position in the corner of the room, not sure if she should try to run, intervene, or let the professionals handle it.
After that fight, her professional interest in Tamsy started. They were simple things at first. Like his form, or his specific attacks, or how he was able to take control of the situation without breaking a sweat. She didn’t know when her interest had become more deranged, seeing how she had pages where she had tried to draw the specific way his eyes looked when he was fighting Amo.
Cruel and punishing.
The cold stare had made Tomme shiver, but damn if she didn’t have the urge to draw each stroke of his iris in explicit detail. She had never imagined a look like that to cross Tamsy’s face, especially since he was usually cool and collected. Hell, he was even playful on some days. It had taken her breath away, and made her feel small under such a piercing gaze. Thankfully, it had never been directed towards her, but she was positive that he had stared at her for a long moment, making her suck her breath in as he ignored her and returned to his fight.
She wasn’t sure why Tamsy made her feel the way she did. He was a valued member of the cleaners, and a respectable mentor and fighter. She should have more faith in the man, but something didn’t sit right with her.
The fact that he was playing these stupid little games with their neck comms was another reason she really didn’t like him. He couldn’t be that much of an idiot. She expected this kind of childishness from Enjin, or even Rudo, but not Tamsy. Tomme stabs her pencil into the page with his face on it, hitting him right in the eye that was already scarred.
Maybe if his face wasn’t so pretty she would have an easier time forgetting his looks and tells. He had an unseen hold on her as if he was using his strings, and Tomme was desperate to escape.
A knock at the door doesn’t rattle her. She only half registers the sound as she waves her hand in the air. “Come in.”
Her elbow rests against the edge of the desk, spine curved forward, shoulders loose with disinterest as she stares down at the page in front of her. She’s too absorbed in figuring out how to draw the stubborn parts of Tamsy’s hair, those impossible tufts that stick out at odd angles yet somehow look deliberately done. There was no way he managed the look without some kind of product. Wax? Some kind of gel? Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t within Tomme’s expertise. Sweat, maybe? Doubtful.
She exhales and blows a stray strand of her own hair out of her face, not bothering to look towards the door. It’s probably Frollo, come to herd her off to their meeting like usual. Footsteps move quietly into the room, stopping just behind her chair. Too close. She can feel the weight of someone’s presence at her back, uncomfortably attentive. It’s mildly invasive, though not enough to make her turn around. She has nothing to hide. Or so she thinks.
“I already told you I’d come by once I was done with this,” she says, tone defeated. She adds a few tentative lines around Tamsy’s face, immediately dislikes them, and erases with more force than necessary. She mutters a curse under her breath and twirls the pencil between her fingers, teeth biting at the inside of her cheek as she stares at the page. She’s wasting time, she knows it, and yet she can’t seem to stop.
“By all means,” a voice says smoothly, close enough that it sends a chill straight down her spine, “don’t let me interrupt you from finishing your important work.”
The sound of it, honey dipped and amused, is unmistakably not Frollo’s. It hits her like a physical blow.
Tomme startles, chair scraping sharply against the floor as she whips around. She comes face to face with Tamsy himself, standing far too close for comfort, his tall frame angled casually as he peers down at her desk. His blond hair is just as unruly in person, catching the light in uneven strands, and his eyes are openly, unapologetically studying her.
“I, uh, you,” Her words tangle uselessly as she pushes her chair back another inch, heart pounding. Heat rushes to her face. “What are you doing here?” she squeaks, mortification clawing up her throat.
Her hand flies to the paper on instinct, covering the drawing in a futile attempt to hide it. It’s too late. The likeness of him, unfinished, imperfect, and painfully obvious, stares up between them, silently betraying her. This is worse than being ambushed by a trash beast in a safe zone. This is more embarrassing than getting drunk at the Cleaners New Years Party.
Tamsy’s hand lashes out and grabs her wrist, preventing her from blocking his view. His eyes carefully absorb everything on the page, from his lith form, to the intricate notes she’s written in the margins about his hands, or his mask, or the way wrinkles form at the corner of his eyes.
The smile on his face is too wide, Tomme can’t help but realize. He’s trying not to laugh at her, which is a small saving grace. Her heart hammers in her chest, reminding her that she’s just been caught in the act like a child and now she’s doomed to be subjected to the consequences. Perhaps it was Tamsy’s ire, or maybe he would bring this up to the boss with reservations about her.
Instead he places his non dominant hand on her shoulder, clutching at her gently, his expression turning from amusement to something that smoulders. He turns her back towards her book, and Tomme can’t help but let him guide her, his hands warm where their skin meets.
“Do you know how lucky you are to have my attention?” Tamsy murmurs, his voice low and unhurried, the words drifting out like they’re meant only for her. His fingers loosen around her wrist, the warmth lingering even after he lets go, as if the contact refuses to fade. Before she can react, he plucks the pencil from her grasp with confidence that makes her stomach twist.
Tomme’s breath stops in her lungs, and she feels her vision blur for a moment. She’s not sure if it's with the embarrassment of being caught, or due to the heat rising to her cheeks. This can’t be happening. There’s no way in hell. Tomme did everything in her power to avoid rubbing the tears in her eyes and giving Tamsy any more ammo against her.
He leans over the desk, close enough that she can catch the faint, clean scent of him and adds a few quick, decisive strokes to the page. The pencil glides effortlessly as he finishes the drawing himself, sketching in those unmistakable, rebellious strands of hair with practiced flair, like he’s signing his own name. He chuckles under his breath, the sound soft and amused, almost fond.
“I knew you were watching me,” he continues, head tilting slightly as he studies the drawing, clearly pleased, “but not to such an obsessive degree.”
The word lands heavy in the air between them, teasing and dangerous all at once, leaving Tomme painfully aware of her flushed face, her racing heart, and just how little space there is between them now. Tamsy places down the pencil and tilts his head, waiting for her to speak.
“It’s part of my job to watch the Cleaners,” Tomme clears her throat and doesn't break eye contact, already too deep in the hole to run from it, "amongst other things.”
Tamsy taps a finger against her book, the humor not lost on her. “You see, I would love to believe that if it was in regards to documentable data or interactions, but these lovely drawings of me have me questioning your intentions. Now, what exactly has caught your eye, supporter, and why is it on little ol’ me?”
Tomme’s mouth opens and closes for a moment, her mouth as dry as it was when the group of cleaners had made their way around dead zones as they hunted for angels through the desert. Tamsy was admittedly patient, but Tomme could tell that his eyes had narrowed slightly with annoyance, and finally she could see that his expression was resembling the look that she couldn’t get out of her mind from that day.
She had to draw it.
Flipping to a new page, Tomme’s pencil moves against the paper, graphite scratching the clean surface as she works on drawing the hooded eyes slowly glaring at her in their confusion.
“This is almost the same look you wore when you were fighting Amo. We both know I was awake the whole time,” she explains sheepishly, her interest in his features making her forget her previous mortification. “You look like you want to bite my head off, and the fact that it contrasts so sharply with your usual look is really motivating me to draw, believe it or not. It’s horrible.”
“Are you hearing yourself right now? It’s laughable.” Tamsy barks out, his grin not faltering, but also not meeting his eyes.
Tomme’s a little breathless as she talks to Tamsy, a moment shared between them that was so unexpected that she had to resist getting up and bolting out the room as she forgoes reason and devoted herself to getting an accurate drawing of the man's glare. She figured she might never get to be so close to the reference material ever again.
“You should see how you look, never mind how I sound.” Tomme shoots back, hating his quick retorts and sarcastic comments. Her fingers shake as she sketches the scar around his eyelid, taking care to highlight his long eyelashes, “I wish I had been able to draw you when you were fighting the other cleaners. You looked like a whole different person.”
Tamsy’s shoulders tense as he straightens up, cold eyes not flinching at her remark. “You’re the only one who remembers it that way, which should tell you something.”
Tomme colours in the black of his pupil, holding up the image to compare it to Tamsy’s look. It’s almost identical. “Having someone watch you shouldn’t warrant a visit in someone's personal room. If you’re only here to watch me draw, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t work well under scrutinizing glares.”
Why was she trying to start a fight with Tamsy, knowing that she had no hope in winning if it actually came down to it?
Regardless if it was a verbal or physical fight, she wouldn't come out the victor. Tamsy Caines had the ability to dominate any situation, bending and twisting it until it suited his needs. Watching him as intensively as she did had shown Tomme all she needed to know. He was a gifted speaker, all his words intentional and picked out with pin point precision. He was a fierce adversary as a fighter, even when he plastered that lazy smile on his face. He was supposedly her ally, but right now it felt like she was in a battle of wits she hadn’t agreed to enter.
“You love rewriting things to fit your personal narrative,” Tamsy says slyly, head tilting as his eyes flick back down to the sketch. There’s a glint of amusement there, almost forced. “I don’t think these cold eyes match mine at all.” He taps the page lightly with his finger. “Perhaps you’re infatuated with a version of me that doesn’t exist?”
The words strike harder than she expects.
She can’t believe how obvious it is that he’s trying to convince her that she didn’t see such a look that day. As if it was a dirty little secret only shared between the two of them.
Tomme bites back before she can stop herself, pushing up from the chair so she’s no longer looking up at him. The sudden movement scrapes wood against stone, sharp and loud in the tense silence. “Not sure what the problem is, but if you can’t accept this is how you look, then I’m not sure what to tell you. I never skip out on the details, even if I only manage to get a glimpse. I don’t need a Vital Instrument to use my tools well.”
Tamsy runs his fingers through his hair, “Are you sure about that? I wouldn’t tell anyone if it’s a simple case of infatuation. You wouldn’t be the first to have your eyes on me romantically.” His lips curl over his teeth, a predator's smile.
“I would never,” She blurts out, eyes flicking away to save herself the embarrassment of this conversation. She hates that she can’t even defend herself fully because drawings including Tamsy in his cleaner and civvies outfits fill the pages of her journal, and if he dares to turn the page he might see more than he's bargained for. “I wouldn’t mix work with my own personal bias. This is only…to document things that I find important. Don’t mix my feelings into it.”
Was this a lie? Maybe.
Tomme never imagined Tamsy as a romantic partner, or rather, she had never allowed herself to. She knew her role of supporter was nothing to him, and after watching his fight, she was too interested in him now as a specimen to examine and deconstruct on paper. Sure, he was handsome in an effortless way. And yes, he was deviously clever, so much so that his words had her buzzing on adrenaline and hanging on to whatever he had to say, but there was a limit to what Tomme was willing to tolerate. It was a line she refused to cross no matter how sharp his smile or how persuasive his voice became. Tamsy Caines was not a challenge she wanted to conquer. He wasn’t an obstacle worth overcoming.
He was a complication.
One she was better off leaving at arm’s length.
“I’m not arguing with you,” Tamsy says sweetly, chin lifting in mockery of her feelings and opinion. He spoke down to her as if he was humoring her. “I’m just explaining why I’m right.” His eyes watch her carefully, assessing her reactions with care. “You shouldn’t get so defensive, Tomme, if you ever hope to get to know me better, because this,” he places a hand on her cheek and tilts her face towards him, “isn't a cute look on you.”
Fuck Tamsy Caines, Tomme growls under her breath, thinking with finality. She slams her book shut and slaps his hand away as she takes a step back.
“You’re the one sounding a little defensive, actually! And I don’t know where you get off touching me and telling me anything. Just because you’re conventionally attractive and a giver doesn’t give you the right to come into my room and spew whatever bullshit you want, Tams.” She fires back.
The silence that follows feels dangerous.
She was going to get killed at this rate. Her heart was pounding in her ears aggressively, first with fear and now with anger as his smile grew and grew as she fumed.
Tamsy places his hands into his pockets, rolling his eyes at her outburst. “Oh Tomme, you’re overreacting. It was just a joke.” His voice almost sounded adoring. “You should liven up a little and not take everything so seriously.”
Tomme hesitates, not wanting to break eye contact first, feeling like that was a foolish decision that Tamsy would take notice of. As if it was an act of surrender, and Tamsy was waiting for the moment she would concede. Her jaw tightens as she holds his gaze.
The sudden screech of feedback slicing through the air makes Tomme flinch despite herself.
In a moment Tamsy’s collar flares to life, breaking through the silence. “Tamsy, we’re waiting for you.” The boss’ voice is quick and sharp, leaving no room for excuses.
The change in Tamsy’s demeanor is immediate.
“On my way.” Tamsy says politely, all fight gone as if it never existed. The tension breaks in the room and for the first time since Tamsy has been here she feels like she can breathe. She watches him carefully, but no show of irritation is on his face. It’s been erased effortlessly from his features.
As soon as Tamsy’s collar cuts out, the noise returns, and this time Tomme’s collar activates. “Tomme, you ready?” Gris asks, expecting her with them by now.
“She just about is,” Tamsy says with a smirk, talking over Tomme’s confirmation, stealing her response before she can give it. She scowls in annoyance.
“Why do you keep doing that?!” She barks out, wondering why he was teasing her and antagonizing her like this. What could be the reason for all these provocations, she’s not sure. What’s even more ludicrous is that Tamsy seems to be enjoying it.
Tamsy only chuckles softly. He turns toward the door, unhurried, every step maddeningly relaxed. Just before he leaves, he looks back at her, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.
He winks, so uncharacteristic of him that it nearly throws her off balance, and ambles out into the hall.
“You’re a smart girl,” he calls over his shoulder, voice light and confident. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. See ya.”
The door shuts behind him, leaving Tomme alone with the echo of his words. She has the unsettling feeling that whatever game he’s playing, she’s already part of it. It takes her a few moments to piece it together. She replays his words, his timing, the way his eyes had lingered just a second too long. And when the meaning finally clicks, her throat tightens and she swallows thickly.
The haunting stare he gave her at Amo’s tower, the random communication errors where Tamsy would answer on her behalf, hell, even his calculated visit to her room when he knew she would be alone…
They all lead to the same message:
He’s watching me, just like I’ve been watching him.
She wasn’t sure why, or when it had started, but Tomme felt a shiver run over her skin. There was something terrifying about having captured his attention, and she wondered if he felt the same way when her eyes were on him. Looking at her notebook filled with multiple unfinished sketches of Tamsy, she wondered when observation had turned into a mild curiosity that bordered on obsession.
Grounding herself, she grabs her book and pockets it, trying to acknowledge the new feelings she has for the giver, and how this night has changed everything. From being perfect strangers, they had somehow become entangled in each other. In a way, Tomme thinks they’ve gone from observing each other to mutual awareness. They were starting to see into the parts of each other that have laid hidden and unexposed to all the others.
Making her way to the medical bay, Tomme has the sinking suspicion that Tamsy might have noticed this long before she ever did.