Chapter Text
Tom Kazansky’s apartment was quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet—this one was sharp, tense, echoing even when nothing made a sound.
The blinds were half-closed. Shoes lined up with military precision by the door. Nothing out of place. Nothing unexpected.
That was how Tom survived now.
Anxiety didn’t scream.
It settled.
Heavy on his chest, tight in his jaw, stealing his breath in small, quiet ways. He didn’t go out much. Didn’t invite people over. Flying didn’t feel the same anymore.
And Maverick knew.
—It’s not forever —Pete said, leaning against the doorframe with that crooked grin he used when he knew he was pushing his luck—. Just… watch him for a few days.
Tom looked down.
The kitten was tiny.
Too tiny. Gray and white, oversized ears, absurdly long whiskers for his round face. Bright eyes, curious, completely unaware of the tension in the room.
—Pete —Tom said flatly—. No.
The kitten chose that moment to attack Tom’s shoelaces.
With passion.
—Hey—! —Tom stepped back, startled.
The cat tangled himself up, rolled, and landed flat on his back, paws in the air, staring at the world like nothing had gone wrong.
Pete laughed.
Tom didn’t.
Not yet.
—His name’s Bigotes —Maverick said—. I rescued him yesterday. Vet says he’s healthy. Just… chaos in a small body.
Bigotes stood up, shook himself, and went for the curtains.
—I can’t —Tom repeated, though the word lacked its earlier strength.
Pete watched him carefully. Not like a pilot. Like a friend.
—You don’t have to do anything right —he said softly—. Just be here.
Silence.
Bigotes attempted to jump onto the couch.
Missed.
Landed on his back again with a soft thump and an offended meow.
Something in Tom cracked.
It wasn’t loud. Just a sharp breath that turned—without permission—into a short, disbelieving laugh.
Tom covered his mouth.
Then he laughed again.
Bigotes stared at him, insulted, and meowed like he demanded respect.
Pete said nothing. Just smiled.
⸻
That night, Tom didn’t sleep well.
Bigotes decided three in the morning was the perfect time to sprint down the hallway like it was a runway.
He attacked shadows. A plant. Tom’s feet.
—You’re impossible —Tom muttered, exhausted… but not angry.
When the anxiety came—as it always did—Bigotes climbed onto his chest without asking.
Curled up.
Vibrating with an uneven purr.
The weight was small. Warm.
Real.
Tom breathed.
Once.
Twice.
It didn’t disappear.
But it hurt less.
⸻
Days passed.
Bigotes destroyed a curtain.
Chewed cables.
Fell asleep inside a flight helmet.
Every mess came with something new: noise, life, interruption.
And Tom started waiting for those moments.
One afternoon, Bigotes tried to jump onto the couch again.
Missed.
Fell flat on his back.
Tom laughed harder this time. Open. Real.
With tears.
Bigotes, deeply offended, got up and sat beside him as if his job was done.
Tom rested his forehead against his hand.
—Thank you —he whispered.
He wasn’t sure to whom.