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The bell above the door rings as they enter. It’s a quiet place, far enough off base that they can relax a little, almost sure they won’t bump into anyone that recognizes them as navy. Walking behind Pete, Tom takes a deep breath and the smell of coffee, intense and stimulating, hits his nose. It’s enough to take him out of the stupor the drive here let him in, head lolling every now and then, Mav shooting him a smile every so often.
Usually, Tom would drive them, bent on not climbing on that monstrosity Mav calls his motorbike, but it’s been a long, exhausting week and, just this one time, Tom can’t really be bothered.
Pete secures a spot in the far back of the cafe, and points with his chin to the seat across the one he’s occupying, a carefree smile plastered on his face. Tom makes sure Pete sees him roll his eyes, exaggerating as much as he can, but he feels the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips, betraying his real feelings about the man’s antics. Pete’s smile gets impossibly bigger.
Smug asshole.
They sit in companionable silence while reading their menus. With fall fast approaching the cafe has added new items, and Tom, though he wouldn’t say it aloud even under threat of death, has been waiting for this time of year.
When Pete first found this little cafe some five months ago, he was eager to show Tom the place because of their overly sweet menu, as he called it; having discovered Tom’s sweet tooth shortly after they got together.
“You’re gonna love it, Ice,” he’d said, with all the energy of a three-year-old who had ingested copious amounts of sugar in the span of half an hour. Completely in character for Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, if you asked Tom.
He’d also looked absolutely adorable practically bouncing on the ball of his feet when they finally arrived, but that was neither here nor there.
Tom shakes his head minutely, knowing he’s directing a rather fond expression to his menu, but he can’t help himself. Here, almost secluded from the world, Pete softly nudging his ankle, Tom feels secure. He feels content. And isn’t that a testament to how much has changed within him thanks to Maverick.
“Ready to order, handsome?” Pete muses quietly, as if afraid to shatter the atmosphere were he to speak louder.
Tom nods and signals for the waitress. A petite woman soon approaches them, pleasant smile in place, pad and pen extended in front of her.
Susan, the tag pinned to his uniform reads. “Hello dear, what can I get you?”
Tom is opening his mouth when Pete talks over him. “Wait! Let me–” he turns to the old lady, a glint in his eye, “one pumpkin spice latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate shavings, and one black coffee. Do you have Splenda?” the woman nods. “Two packets please,” he finishes, preening at the look Tom’s leveling him with.
She writes it down as she says “sure thing, love. Coming right up,” gives them one last smile, and turns to return behind the counter.
“How–”
“How did I know?” Tom sees the mischievousness there when Pete turns his gaze to him. “I’m just awesome like that,” he finishes, pointing with a thumb at himself.
Tom lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Dork.”
“You love it.”
He pulls a chagrined expression, not meaning it in the slightest. “I do. Still a mystery as to why, but I do.”
Pete takes the hand that’s closer to the wall, propped beside the napkin dispenser, in his and squeezes, not letting go after.
Soon, the same lady brings out their drinks, and Ice feels cold air hit his hand as he and Pete let go.
“Here you go,” she croons, and puts the black coffee down in front of Tom, much to Pete’s amusement. Tom can see the way he’s fighting a snort when she places the latte in front of him.
“Thanks,” he says before Pete unwillingly embarrasses her. She smiles, a soft you’re welcome thrown at them, and then she’s gone, and Pete lets out a guffaw. Tom rolls his eyes once more, takes both drinks, and swaps them expertly.
It’s not the first time it happens, and it certainly won’t be the last.
Tom has come to the conclusion that it’s because of their looks. It should bother him more that years of repression and the ice-cold, no mistakes mask have come to this, but with Mav being so amused by the situation each time, there’s no time to ponder on that for too long. To tell the truth, it’s a relief.
Tom takes a sip of his drink, getting whipped cream all over be damned, and the sweetness tastes heavenly. Sweet, spicy, a barely there tang cutting through and, overall, like a hug he doesn’t want to be away from. Somehow, it reminds him of Pete.
This may be his favorite drink.
A low chuckle interrupts his musing. “Looking a little out of sorts there, pumpkin.”
“Mav,” Tom warns, “don’t.”
“What?” Pete answers between giggles. Tom stares at him until Pete calms down and beckons Tom closer with a finger. Tom looks at him suspiciously, which only makes Mav chuckle once more. “Come here, you have some–here,” he huffs, pushing forward and reaching for his upper lip. When the finger he used comes back full of whipped cream, Pete looks him directly in the eye, licks it clean, and smiles.
Tom hastily grabs a napkin and wipes at his mouth, decidedly not using the tissue as a distraction for the blush he feels quickly creeping up his neck.
“Want a muffin–”
“No.”
Pete looks completely startled for a moment before he recovers. “You don’t want a muffin?”
“I do. I just don’t want you to finish that sentence.”
Pete cackles. “That was a full sentence!”
“Sure, but you weren’t going to finish it there, were you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about… muffin.”
Tom lets out an exasperated moan as he rubs at his temple with a hand. “I hate you.”
***
In the end, Mav does get him a muffin, taking a single bite out of it before handing it to Tom. They talk for a while, about what they’re getting Bradley for his birthday–Tom reminding Pete to give Carole a call to figure out the plans for the party. They discuss the new batch of pilots that’s bound in a few days, and how Mav needs to finish his paperwork before that.
“Yes, mother,” Pete quips, and Tom ignores it to ponder on how easy it is to lose himself in this man, in the warmth he exudes and the jolt of electricity that shoots through him when he traces the vein in his wrist with a finger, nail scrapping slightly over Tom’s palm.
After the bill is taken care of–Pete pouting all through Tom paying and them leaving the cafe–and they draw near the Bronco, Tom is suddenly pushed against the side of it, Mav crowding his space and pressing against him from head to toe. With the car hiding them from prying eyes, he reaches up and captures Tom’s mouth in a searing kiss.
Tom brings his hands to Pete’s hips, holding him in place as they kiss slowly. Pete tastes tangy because of the black coffee he had but, as much as Tom hates the taste, he can’t bring himself to stop, instead licking at his wingman’s lips. That elicits a low grumble out of Mav and suddenly the kiss is more passionate than what he’s comfortable with for them literally being out in the street, so he breaks it, pecking Pete’s cheek when the other man whimpers.
He pats the top of Mav’s head, smiling when Pete buries his face in the crook of his neck. “What was that for?”
“Wanted to taste the latte,” he grumbles.
“Pete, you don’t even like sweet stuff,” it comes out as incredulous as he’s feeling.
Pete grumbles some more, the sound now muffled.
“What was that?”
Pete moves his head a little, his breath ghosting right over his pulse point. “I said, I like sweet stuff when it’s on your lips.”
“Sap,” he condemns, but holds Pete a little tighter.
They stay like that for a couple of minutes, just breathing the other in. When Tom licks his lips to speak, he pulls a face. “Ugh, Maverick, I taste like black coffee now!”
Pete pushes off him, takes a look at Tom’s face, and promptly doubles over with laughter.
Tome shoves him and tries to climb into the Bronco. When the door doesn’t budge, he pats his jacket, looking for the keys, and hears them jingle behind him. Turning, he looks up to see the smug face of the bastard he regrettably calls the love of his life.
“Want a lift, Mr. Iceman?”
Tom would like to pretend he’s angry, and the illusion would hold if not for the way he’s holding Pete’s hand throughout the ride back home. If he licks his lips some more, the taste now particularly Pete, well, that’s no one’s business but his.