#problematic age gap

He's not fire captain material. He's hiding a significant portion of himself from the world, and he's spent the last 20 years of his life letting narrow minded men dictate what he does, and who he sees. He's been complicit in hurting other people because he was too much of a coward to stand up to them. He has no business being a leader.

And yet here he is, on a date with someone he can never fully commit to, because his friend in HR had mentioned he would be a more attractive candidate if he was in a stable relationship.

So he smiles at the right times, and goes through the motions of a man interested in a woman for more than just her brain and personality. She seems to buy it, cheeks flushing when he pays her a compliment, pupils dilating when he trails his fingers down her bare arm before leaning in for a chaste kiss outside the restaurant.

"I had a really good time," Abby tells him, tucking her hair behind one ear. It's endearing, and if he were a same, rational human it would be easy to fall in love with her. Instead, he's… who he is.

"Me too," he replies, and it isn't a lie. He'd takes a chance, and reaches up to tuck the loose hair on the other side behind her ear. She leans into his hand, and Tommy feels like an asshole. It's not enough to stop him from asking the expected follow up. "Can I see you again?"

Abby nods, smiling up at him shyly. "I'd like that."

Tommy's saved from further conversation by the arrival of Abby's cab. He opens the door for her, and helps her into the back. He doesn’t move from the curb until the back has driven out of sight. Then he turns on his heel and walks back into restaurant, straight to the bar.

"I'll have the Glenlivet, 25, neat," Tommy orders, grabbing a seat in front of the bartender, barely waiting to make sure he has the man's attention.

Regret is immediately when he actually registers the bartender in front of him. The kid - and he's definitely a kid, probably twenty years Tommy's junior - has sharp cheakbones, bright blue eyes, and full lips that make it very easy for Tommy to imagine kissing them, or putting them to other uses.

He misses what the kid says, and instead is treated to the view of the kid's backside while he goes to grab the top shelf liquor. A generous pour is given, and the kid slides the tumbler across the bartop in front of him.

"Bad date?" the kid asks, not moving away.

A quick glance around the bar shows it's not that busy right now, and it's late enough that he's not mixing drinks for the dinner rush. Instead of answering the kid, Tommy just raises one eye brow. It's usually enough to let someone know he's not interested in the conversation.

The kid doesn't get the hint.

"I saw you earlier with the redhead," the kid comments, eyes wide. "It looked like things were going well. I'm just surprised you came back without her. Did you fumble the follow through?"

Tommy can't control the incredulous expression that crosses over his face at the kid's verbal spew. In what world does a barely legal bartender question a customer about a date and still expect a tip.

"The date went fine," Tommy feels compelled to point out, still puzzling over the kid's behaviour.

"And yet you're back in here ordering the worst drink known to mankind, instead of going home, or going home with her," the kid points out, grinning. The way his eyes light up draws Tommy's attention to his face, and it's then that he notices the bright red birthmark next to his eye. It's the same colour as his lips - probably the same colour as his….

Fuck.

"I'll have you know, that's a very nice bottle of scotch you're serving up," Tommy points out, instead of taking his drink and leaving. He couldn't get out of his seat if he tried.

"It's a very expensive bottle of scotch, that smells like a bog and tastes like paint thinner," the kid points out, mouth twisting in disgust. "The only people who say they like it are men trying to be tough, and people who've killed off their tastes buds after years of chain smoking."

The very strong opinion, delivered without pause, actually has Tommy let out a laugh. It's completely unbidden, almost a snort rather than the careful chuckle he's perfected over the years. It earns him a cheek splitting smile from the kid, clearly pleased about the reaction.

The thing is, the kid isn't wrong. Scotch is definitely an acquired taste, one Tommy's worked at developing through his years in the army and at the fire station. It's the drink "real" men sip. By this point, Tommy's come to enjoy it. He takes a slow sip from the tumbler, making deliberate eye contact with the kid as he does.

He's rewarded by the kid visibily swallowing, and his cheeks pinking up. Tommy likes that look on him.

Settling against the back rest of the bar stool, Tommy's mouth quirks in a smile. "Okay, kid. If not a scotch, what would you have me order?"

The kid looks him up and down, really taking him in, and Tommy has to fight not to straighten his shoulders or puff up his chest to impress him. Keeps still, trying to appear unaffected. The kid hums in thought, then starts talking. "I'm a pretty simple guy. PBR, rum and coke, vodka cran if I'm feeling fancy. I feel like that's all a little juvenile for you."

Tommy tilts his head in acknowledgement. He's well past the point in his life where he's going for quantity over quality.

The kid hums again, then continues. "You don't have the look of a smoker, so I'm going to assume your taste buds are intact. Makes me think you're not going to take kindly to being served a drink with a fruit garnish. Maybe a classic martini…"

Tommy can't help the way his lips narrow at the thought, and the kid catches the expression.

"Okay - not a martini, so probably not something dry." The kid looks at his hands, like he's doing some mental math. "Twist on an old fashion. Probably a peanut butter one. You get some sweeter liquors, and it's served on ice so you don't feel like you're drinking straight alcohol. You still get your man points, but you get to drink something you actually enjoy."

"Man points," Tommy comments with another snort of laughter. The kid grins in response. "You definitely know how to sell a drink. I'll make sure to try it next time."

The kid's face falls at the mention of next time, like he's upset by the idea of Tommy leaving. Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, considering. The kid is cute, but isn't giving off strong signals one way or the other. It's hard to tell if he's forward and flirting, or just has no filter. Still, Tommy isn't ready to go home yet. He figures he can subtly shoot his shot and still be able to leave the bar without getting decked if the kid decides to turn him down.

"What's your name, kid?" Tommy asks, leaning forward towards the bar.

The kid swallows again, throat bobbing. Tommy watches intently as the kid squirms. "Uh, it's, um. Evan."

"Well, Evan. My name is Tommy." He lifts his scotch in a mock cheers, and takes a sip. "I'm going to enjoy my scotch, then head over to The Abstract. What time are you off?"

Evan looks shocked, then delighted. "You want me to go clubbing with you?"

Clubbing is one way to put it, but Tommy figures the description fits. He raises an eyebrow again, this time implying that the answer is obvious. He's delighted to see Evan's face flush again.

"I should be out of here in another thirty minutes," Evan tells him, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet behind the bar.

"I'll be waiting, then," Tommy tells him, deeply satisfied by the turn the night has taken.