Chapter Text
Tom Kazansky didn't really like garage sales.
He didn't have anything against them, but he didn't see the point in spending his Saturdays running around town to dig through other people's junk. It was the same with thrift shops. He didn't need any of the stupid kitchen gadgets, or the weird vacation statues, or the books with torn out pages, and even if he did need some different clothes, he couldn't stomach the idea of wearing clothes with holes and stains that had been put there by strangers. He liked looking nice and clean. Ron called him a princess. Tom called him a slob.
Ron was the only reason Tom was even out of the house right now, hungover and pissy, early on the last Saturday morning before Top Gun started. Because Ron loved garage sales. Tom suspected it was because he grew up in the Midwest, where there wasn't anything better to do but go hunting for treasures in the trash. He'd spend hours there, finding old broken-in jeans and kitchen accessories older than his mother. Tom didn't get it.
Still, Tom loved Ron. And Ron had driven him to the airport for his father's funeral, so he owed him one. Which is why Tom was currently half-heartedly looking through a box of cassettes while Ron haggled with the old lady at the front about the price of a blender. He was about to turn around and tell Ron that if he wanted a blender so badly, Tom would just buy him one, when something small and shiny at the bottom of the box caught his eye.
He reached in and pulled out a small hand-held radio. It looked decently old, with light blue paint that was chipping off into flakes. When he turned it over, it had Property of the United States Navy stamped on the bottom.
Tom liked to think of himself as a practical guy. Buying this radio was not practical. He didn't need it. It was cool enough, but it probably didn't even work, and the Navy supplied them with their own radios in their planes anyway.
"How much for this?" he called over to the old lady as Ron slid over $5 for the blender.
“Oh, that old thing?” she peered at him over her golden spectacles. “It was my husband’s. Doesn’t even work. A dollar?”
“Done.” He pulled the bill out of his pocket and handed it over.
“Finally coming around to treasure hunting?” Ron teased, jabbing him with his shoulder.
“Fuck off,” Tom replied. “It’s just an old radio.”
“Tuff one, though,” Ron said. “Think you can fix it?”
“Maybe. Mother Goose and Cougar are coming in tomorrow, they could help.”
“Just like the good old days,” Ron slung an arm around Tom’s shoulders. “I’m done here. C’mon, there’s another one a block over that ends in an hour.”
Tom groaned theatrically, pulling down his shades and slipping the radio into his messenger bag. Taking it apart would have to wait until later.
It wasn’t until much later, after Ron had already fallen asleep, that Tom even remembered the damn thing.
He picked it up and examined it.
It looked well-used, with little dents where it had been dropped and scratches where it had been put into the same bag as keys. The numbers on the dials had been almost entirely rubbed off and the antenna was a little bent, but other than that, it seemed useable. Tom flipped the battery cover open to find that it was empty. That was a good sign. At least it wasn’t corroded.
He dug through his drawer until he came across a few double-As and stuck them into it. When he straightened the antenna, it crackled to life.
“Radio check,” he said. “Repeat, radio check.”
There was a long silence and Tom felt like an idiot for thinking it would be that easy. The radio was probably broken in some way that he couldn’t see. He’d have to tear the thing apart to get it working and that wasn’t worth the effort, especially when-
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft crackle.
“Read you 5-by-5, go ahead.”
Tom nearly dropped the radio he was so startled. It was a man, by the sounds of it. He had a deep voice, a little southern, like the cowboys that Tom shared a floor with.
“This is Lieutenant Tom Kazansky of the US Navy,” Tom said. “Callsign: Iceman. Who am I speaking to? Over.”
The silence was even longer this time.
“Bullshit.”
Tom blinked stupidly. “Pardon? Over.”
“Knock it off, kid, or I swear to God I’ll end you. You aren’t Tom Kazansky.”
“Who am I speaking to? Over.”
“Captain Pete Mitchell of the US Navy, you bastard.”
Tom wasn’t sure what was happening. He’d never been cussed out by a superior, let alone one who didn’t respect radio protocol. “Sir, with all due respect, I am Lieutenant Kazansky. Over.”
“Oh yeah?” the man sounded furious. If they’d been speaking face to face, Tom wouldn’t have been surprised if Mitchell punched him. “You barely sound twenty, kid. You think this is a joke?”
“No joke, sir,” Tom said. “I’m 21. I was born December 31, 1965. Over.”
Mitchell paused. “Your math is off. It’s 2022.”
“Sir, it’s 1986.”
Mitchell heaved a big sigh. “I’m too tired to try and figure out who you actually are. Consider yourself lucky, kid. Signing off.”
Tom didn’t have time to respond before the line went silent.
“Fucking weird ,” he mumbled, crawling under his blankets. It didn’t make any sense.
Maybe Mitchell was drunk. Or high, or something, and got confused. Tom didn’t partake, but he’d heard stories of kids doing acid and being convinced that they’d traveled back in time and met God. That must have been it. Ron rolled over, peering at him blearily. “You say something?”
“No,” Tom said. “Go to sleep.”
They were supposed to go to a bar with the other guys the next day. Worrying about Mitchell would have to wait.