Chapter Text
When Tris came home with her knees scuffed with gritty sand, heels of her palms indented with the grains, and a drying milk mustache, Tom only raised an eyebrow at her.
And the times she came home with the smell of tobacco in her clothes or her hair, he reminded himself to talk to the old Mexican couple down the road to tell them to stop smoking around her when they ate lunch outside, glasses filled with tequila and grapefruit juice. But when she returned with her shoes in her hands, her laces untied, her shirt ruffled, and her shorts scuffed, flushed with a warm excitement that Tom started to associate with Carole's kid, Bradley, he knew that he would eventually end up with an invitation for dinner.
Finally, shutting the screen door and running through the front room to reach him where he lay on the couch, she slid down the front so that she sat by his head. He had an arm stretched across his eyes. Nose tucked into the valley of his inner elbow.
"Yes?" Tom murmured in an attempt to act distracted when in reality he was looking at his daughter, moving his arm slightly away from his face to take a look at her.
Her legs had gotten longer over the summer, her arms lanky and her hair choppy, dry, and clumped together by salt and drying sand. She had grown into her face, but not yet her limbs. He felt a pang in his chest, guilty over missing months- years- of her childhood. The first time he came back from duty she didn't recognize him, she had clung to his sister's skirts, hiding her face behind them as she scowled up at him. It was only the second time when he scooped her up and she pressed her little face into his hair that she knew who he was, Tom had nearly wept in joy right there in the airport.
"Dad?" Her voice was shaky, hands fidgety.
"Tris."
She did not face him. "You're gonna get a call."
"What did you do?" Tom didn't think she was the type of kid to get into trouble, but he had quickly learned otherwise. Deep under all her thick skin, was a boiling temperament ready to burst.
"Nothing!" She said, exasperatedly. "It's from Carole."
"Hm."
In a frenzy, Tristan snatched up her shoes and bolted from the front room, stomping up the stairs in what Tom can only assume was a teenage huff.
Tilting his head away from the stairs, he breathed in before sitting up and getting off the couch. The home phone rang from the kitchen.
Bare feet pattering against the cold tile, Tom picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear, nestling it between his head and shoulder. "Carole."
On the other end of the line, she laughed. "Tom! Tris tell ya I was gonna call?"
Tom glance out the kitchen and at the stairs, Tris peaked from the top. "She did. Everything all right?"
"Yes, yes, everything's fine. I just wanted to check if you were free for dinner tonight. You and Tris." Carole's voice filtered in and out.
"We are. What time?"
"I'm making Bradley learn how to cook a mean steak," Carole hummed, "He might burn the first one. 7?"
Tom nods, "That works. I'll tell Tris to get cleaned up."
"Oh! No need to dress up!" She piped.
"Alight," Tom smiled, "No, it's just that she's covered in sand."
Carole laughed. "Yes, Bradley and 'er were at the beach this afternoon! I pray every time before the two go out that they stay outta trouble!"
"They always will," Tom moved the phone off his shoulder and into his hand, "See you tonight, Carole."
"Yes, bye Tom!"
He pulled the phone from his ear, "Oh, and, I've invited-", and stuck it back into the machine.
Tristan, who had moved down the stairs, watched him.
"Yes?" He queried.
"Did she tell you?" She tucked a brown strand of her hair behind her ear.
"Tell me what, Tristan?"
"Oh, never mind." She huffed; hands clutched behind her back. "I'm going to take a shower."
"Off you go then." Tom reached for her, cupping her neck with his hand to kiss between her eyes. "Smelly."
She pushed him off, groaning. "Dad!" She stomped up the stairs again, fists clenched.
It was warm in Carole's kitchen. The room had a wooly haze that made Tom flush, red from the tips of his ears to the bones of his cheeks. He could hear the murmur of Cyndi Lauper coming from the radio, a sci-fi movie from the living room's dingy TV, and Bradley's distant complaining of the low-quality movie. Carole danced around the kitchen as Tom set the square, wooden table in the middle. Every time she turned Tom's way, her hand would skim across his shoulders.
"Why does it look like that?"
"What?"
"Is it some type of space tunnel?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"What the fu- what the hell is it then?"
"A stargate, it's taking him across the galaxy."
"Why does it look like that?"
"It's like that 'cuz the director is a schizo."
Tom could see Bradley's and Tristan's shadows from where he was in the kitchen, their forms distanced from each other.
"It looks like sh- crap."
"Hey! For somethin' made in the '60s, it looks great."
Bradley grumbled. "The monkeys were the best part."
"When their movie ends, and Pete gets here, we'll eat!" Carole claps her hands together, the last napkin folded on the table.
"What?" Tom's head snap's back over to Carole.
"Oh, yes, I wanted to tell you that I also invited Pete." She raises an eyebrow at him, "I know you two flew together, so I assumed-“
”Bring back the monkeys!” Bradley chanted from the Living room.
“Homo habilis.” Tristan corrected between hiccups.
“And I know Nick used to talk about you two butting heads but-“ She waved her hands in the air, voice filtering out Tristan’s and Bradley’s. “He’s always- oh Tom, I wanna give ‘im a family. He had Nick, I wanna give ‘im us. Ya know?”
“Us?” Tom’s voice felt rough, nearly cracking under the thundering of his heart in his chest.
She stopped at his side. “Me, Bradley. You, Tris. I wanna add Pete to that picture.”
“Is that what he wants, Carole?” Tom asked.
“It’s what I want..”
“Is this what Tris wants?”
“She loves Bradley-“
“But she’s never known Pete.” Tom looked back at his daughter. She knows. She’s known for a long time now. She watched him stare down at Pete when he stood and stare up when he sat, always telling him he looked at Pete in this certain way she had never seen before. Then, Pete would tell Tom he looked at his daughter like she was the world. And he knew, and how he hated that he understood, that the look in his eyes was love.
"Then let her know him, Tom," Carole cleared her throat as Tom scowled.
Tom looked away from Tris’ shadow, then to Bradley’s, and then to Carole’s face. Unsure, he said: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah," Tom breathed, feeling like the air in his lungs had been punched out, "Okay."
The TV paused, and Tris’ shadow moved from the living room, her face peeking into the kitchen to look at her father. Tom stared back, gritting his teeth. She gave him a meek smile, trying to reassure him. Tom tensed instead, pushing off the counter to leave the kitchen. He motioned for her to follow him, opening the front door and stepping outside.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Pete since that night; they’d talked. They’ve been professional. But nothing was the same after Pete walked into the shadows of the Hard Deck. There was no more banter, competition, or anything else.
Tris pressed herself against his side, raising a hand to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She knew what Tom would spare and what Bradley would ramble about. She knew Maverick. She didn’t know Pete, not really. Some part of him yelled at himself for his idiocy. For confessing and for being so obvious. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
"Is it hard?" His daughter pushed her cheek into his shoulder. "Talking to Maverick, I mean."
"Sometimes," He rubbed his hand up and down her arm slowly, tracing patterns along the way with his thumb. "I try to be clever about it. I usually end up saying nothing at all."
Tristan peered up at him. "Can I assume…?"
"I know you know, Tristan. I don’t... I don’t hide it from you." Tom rested his chin on the top of her head.
Her brows were furrowed, and her eyes were blinking. "Do you hide it from everyone else?"
"I have to, sweetheart. My romantic preferences are not exactly ideal for my occupation."
"You know what I see?"
"What do you see, Tris?"
"I see two men defending themselves," she paused, "and Pete is scared. You’re scared."
"What’s Pete scared of?" Tom’s lips flattened to a straight line, pinching white.
"Of loving you," Tris pressed her lips to his clothed shoulder, rubbing her nose along the top of the curve. "Of having to admit that."
"Who said that Pete—that Pete loved me?" he stumbled over these difficult words.
"I said that," she huffed. "I see how he looks at you. You know that I see it. I’ve told you I can see; I knew I saw something."
Tom swatted her arm and said, "I think I look at you both the same way."
Tris snapped her head up to look at him, "You don’t. You look at me like I’m your daughter or like I’m your child. And you look at him like you want to marry him."
Tom flushed bright red. "Maybe Carole’s right."
His daughter hummed questioningly.
"She wants to make a family out of us." Tom stared down the driveway and into the darkness, "You, me, her, Bradley, Pete."
"And you just practically admitted wanting to marry Pete."
"I didn’t-"
"You not denying it is the same thing as saying, ‘I do!" She raised an eyebrow at him, smiling.
"Do you…" Tom narrowed his eyes at his daughter, at the little girl who wasn’t so little anymore. "Do you want this?"
"If you’ll give it to me, sure."
Tom took a steadying breath, letting the air pool into his lungs and burn them.
"But you’re not ready," Tris said matter-of-factly. "I don’t think you’ll ever be ready."
"Yes," Tom pressed a kiss to her hair, breathing in her fruity shampoo, "I don’t think we ever will be."
As she leaned into him, her weight reassuring, the rumble of an engine barked from down the road. Patting her arm one last time, Tom herded his daughter back inside. Anxiety twisted at his gut, biting at the inside of his throat, pulling it taut.
"You won't tell him?"
"I’ll think of something clever instead."
Tris rolled her eyes before padding down the hall and into the living room to turn on the TV. Bradley stretched his arms and legs, scooting closer to her for warmth as she settled on the ground with him. Tom let them be and rejoined Carole in the kitchen, where she had finished putting out the dinner.
Her cheeks were pink, and she was wringing her hands together as she looked up at Tom. The engine sounded again, revving from outside. The edges of the steak were charred from the inexperienced hand of a teenage boy. The mashed potatoes were smooth and silky, with a steaming brown gravy in a gravy boat next to the porcelain bowl. The smell wafted over Tom, causing his stomach to growl.
And then-
The front door swung open. And Bradley scrambled from his position next to Tris and ran down the hallway, whooping. Tom could hear the two bodies collide and stumble as they laughed and teetered down the hall. Tris turned off the TV.
Bradley and Pete stumbled into the kitchen. Bradley wrapped his arms around his godfather and grinned.
Pete glowed.
The radio switched to Bob Dylan.
Pete stared at Tom.
Pete’s grin faltered before he pasted it back on. His cheeks, high upon his cheekbones, flared red under the warmth of the yellow kitchen lights. Tom swallowed down the angry, twisting knot in his throat, and tipped his head at Pete. Pete snapped his head down, averting his eyes back to Bradley.
In Tom's ears, 'Blowing in the Wind' murmured softly.
Pete looked up from Bradley, untangled himself, and moved to give a hug to Carole. Carole pressed a heavy kiss to Pete’s temple.
Tris entered the kitchen, her right-hand picking at the cuticles of her left nails. Tom gave her a hard look, and Pete gave her a bursting smile that she meekly returned with much less fervor.
"Okay, let’s eat!" Carole clapped her hands together, spinning around to pull out a chair for herself. Tris hurried to sit next to her, and Tom felt his pulse spike. Pete clapped Bradley on the back and pulled out a seat in front of Tristan, then Bradley sat down next to Tris. The only seat left was next to Pete's. Slowly, Tom pulled out the squeaky, old wooden chair. It scratched against the flooring. Pete moved his elbow, and Tom stopped breathing.
Tris folded her hands in her lap under the table, not looking at either Tom or Pete.
The radio sounded quiet in Tom’s ears, and his pulse was like a siren ringing intensely next to his ear drum. It thrummed in his head, a throbbing feeling pounding at his skull. Carole led the conversation, and Tom tried his best not to let his right elbow collide with Pete’s left.
Pete’s hair was screwed up, and clumps stuck up left and right. Messy and wild, he was flushed with the cold wind that reared its ugly head at him when he rode down the street. Tom caught his daughter's eye; she did nothing but raise an expectant eyebrow at him. Yet, no words felt right. This didn’t feel right.
Tom was left-handed. Pete was right-handed. Their elbows never touched—not once the entire night. Tom felt hyper-aware of his surroundings in those moments, carefully raising his fork with his elbow tucked in. Pete’s cheeks remained flushed with laughter, and he grinned even when Tris snarked at Bradley. Tom sat there at that dinner table and dreamed. And he realized all this time that maybe, just maybe, Carole was right and that he wasn’t upset with that. Maybe he even wanted it.
He could almost hear her say, ‘I told you so.’
Dinner ended as it started. Chairs screeched as they were pushed out, and everyone clamored to clean up. Bradley went on and on about some air show he wanted to take Tris to. She scowled all the way to the sink and then said sternly, "No thanks."
Tom nearly told her to be nice, but-
"Why not?" Pete spoke up, "You might like it!"
His daughter dumped her dishes in the sink. "Well, I don’t."
"And how do you know that?"
"What?"
"How do you know you won't like it? Go on, spend some time with Brad, huh?"
Carole laughed from where she stood next to the table, hands full with the gravy boat and cranberry bowl: "All they do is hang out with each other, Pete!"
"Please, Tris?" Bradley grinned at her, knowing he’d won.
Tris thought for a moment, her eyes flashing towards Tom. He kept his face neutral. "Fine… But only because I know this is the only way I can keep all your crazy plane-obsessed asses down!"
"Tristan." Tom snapped at her.
She narrowed her eyes at her father. She then sighed and nudged his side. Tom felt his blood spike in panic, but he didn’t allow this feeling to show on his face as he scooted her out of the kitchen with Bradley trailing after them.
Tom looked back. Pete was staring at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together. Tom stared back. And in a flash, that look in Pete’s eyes, one that was full of something distant, was gone. Was it yearning? Was it longing? Was it everything Tom had wished for Pete to feel, for Pete to tell him on the Hard Deck's front steps all those years ago? Suddenly, Tom wished Ron was here. He wanted Ron to snap him out of it, slide an arm around his shoulders, and charm their way out of the house with promises of another dinner sometime in the future. He also wanted Ron to pick Tris up like he did when she was little and babble at her.
It didn’t happen, and Tom had to live with the knowledge that somewhere deep inside Pete was the resting fire of ache, like a dragon under a mountain, buried under piles of gold.
"Help me with the dishes?" Carole asked. "I’ll leave the kids to their own devices this time."
Pete snuck a glance at Tom, and he didn’t miss it. But he wished he had.
They joined Carole at the sink. It was like a dance; they maneuvered around each other so that not an inch of skin, not even a thread of their clothes, would touch. Pete had his sleeves rolled up and his long black shirt scrunched up around the valley of his inner elbow. Tom watched as the muscles there pulled tight and loosened.
The radio played ‘Going to California’.
As if Pete knew Tom was watching, his eyes shot up. Tom grimaced and was caught. Pete sucked in a harsh, shuddering breath, his teeth catching on his bottom lip. Tom swallowed hard and snapped his head away, taking the dishes Carole handed him and starting to dry them.
Pete dried off his hands and rolled down his sleeves, hiding his forearms. "I gotta get going, Care, Ice."
With a pout, Carole let open the dish cabinet so she could go over and wrap her arms around Pete’s shoulders. And over hers, Pete met Tom’s eyes.
Tom deserved an Oscar.
They hadn’t touched once the entire night, but every inch of Tom’s skin was on fire as if Pete had smoothed his palms down his arms, across his face, down the back of his neck, and down his collar and shirt, then up his back and his sides. Tom couldn’t fucking breathe.
Pete bid Bradley farewell with a firm shake of his shoulders. Tris peered at Pete from the couch, her head tilted. Then she looked at Tom. Tom didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t even hear Pete say goodbye to her.
Not when he turned to look at Tom, when Tom opened the door for him, when Tom stepped outside with Pete, and not when Pete paused down the porch steps to turn and stare up at him with that look in his eyes.
"Say something clever, will you?" Pete asked, almost like he was begging Tom not to say it.
"I haven’t been able to come up with anything."
"Last time wasn’t too smart either." Hurt lingered in Pete's watery green eyes.
"I was drunk." Tom straightened his posture, watching Pete closely.
"Are they-" Pete narrowed suspicious eyes at Tom. "Just drunk?"
"Not now."
"Bye, Ice." Maverick flashed in Pete’s posture, defensive.
"Bye, Pete." Tom watched Pete walk away. Down the dark path, to the driveway. "Love you."
Pete didn’t pause and only walked faster. As if to escape the harsh reality that Tom brought with him.
To hide the fear that laced his tense shoulders. And still, Tom thought of nothing clever to call after Pete and reel him back in.