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Ron “Slider” Kerner has known Tom “Iceman” Kazansky for a very long time. Years, in fact. They met the very first day of their freshman year of high school in their mandatory Biology class, and bonded over their mutual hatred for micro-cellular organisms and school uniforms and that one lunch lady that had been nagging the school board about “healthy cafeteria options.” From then on, they were a team- they took on the rest of high school together, stormed their way through the naval academy, and then had each other’s backs through thick and thin during every deployment since. It was the same during Top Gun- and now that the two are stationed together in Miramar, it seems that there is absolutely nothing in hell or on high that they can’t handle. There are zero secrets between them. They’re brothers, till the day they die.
And never, not once in the entire time that Ron has known Tom, has he ever casually mentioned going to the library.
They’ve just hit the showers after flying a grueling test route, and Tom is moving just slightly faster than normal. Ron watches, amused, as he runs a comb through his hair, pushing his blonde tips first to one side and then to the other. Then, a little less amused, as he swipes quickly at the mole on his jaw like he’s trying to wipe it off- and then outright worried when his best friend badgers Hollywood to let him borrow one of the seven colognes he keeps in his locker.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Slider asks, bewildered, as Tom purposely avoids eye contact in favor of riffling through his bag.
He sniffs. Kisses his teeth aggressively, the way he has since he was fourteen when he’s trying to avoid a question.
“Library.”
And Slider laughs at him. Because he thinks he’s joking. Is he not joking?
“You’re- what?!”
Ice shrugs, throwing his bag over his shoulder. In typical flawless fashion, he has timed his response perfectly with his exit to avoid the bajillion questions that have started racing through Ron’s head.
“Headed to the library. See you tomorrow, stay out of trouble.” Ice’s goodbye grows faint as he sweeps out of the locker room, leaving only a whiff of “Midnight Musk” and three incredibly confused Naval officers.
“He got a date?” Wolfman asks.
Ron shakes his head. “Nah, he would have just said so. What the fuck is he doing at the library? Reading books?”
Hollywood rolls his shoulders back, and crosses his arms over his chest in a self-assured gesture.
“He’s wearing Midnight Musk, gentlemen. Now I’m no expert-” (“Of course not,” Wolfman snidely butts in) “-but you don’t wear that kinda cologne unless you’re trying to wet some panties.”
The two RIOS roll their eyes in unintentional unison.
“Ok, fine, let’s say he’s going to meet some chick. But at a library? When have any of you ever known Mr. Iceman to go for that?”
Hollywood raises his eyebrows. “She’s gotta be smoking.”
The other two men shrug, in begrudging assent.
“Must be.”
“I guess, man.”
Ron resumes buttoning his jeans back up, trying to push the puzzlement out of his mind. It’s probably nothing, he thinks. And most definitely none of my business.
~~~
That weekend, they’re out for drinks at the O Club, and Ice is acting weird again. He’s not scanning the crowd of women who are always eager to catch his gaze, not calculating which is the best candidate to take home for the night. Instead, he sips calmly at the beer in his hand and never lets his gaze or his attention stray from the guys. Even after Mitchell blazes through the bar and somehow manages to challenge their commanding officer to a drinking game, Ice only shakes his head and sighs, rather than popping a blood vessel like he normally would.
After he offers to collect another round, Slider, Wolfman, Hollywood, Chipper, and Sundown huddle together to watch him meander up to the bar, dodging cleavage and swaying hips left and right.
“He must be getting it good. I haven’t seen him this relaxed, ever.”
The men all raise their beers for a unanimous, conceding sip.
The conversation abruptly reverses to the original topic as Tom returns, but Ron lingers on the lean form of his best friend and decides that maybe he, too, is due for a trip to the library.
~~~
You love your job. You love your job.
Your mother doesn’t, of course. You can practically hear the sound of her wringing her hands together every time you call, as she pesters you with questions about any men that you’ve met, or if maybe you’d be more comfortable in a secretarial position, or if you got that recipe she sent you in the mail, and if you’ve met any men recently…
The conversation goes the same every time. You tell her that yes, the casserole was delicious, no, you don’t want to be a secretary, and you most certainly, positively, and definitely, do not need a man in your life. And it could be worse, you could be a stripper.
She’ll stutter, and hem, and haw for good measure, and then your father will call for her from the other room and she’ll have to let you go. And you’ll hang up with just a tiny bit more of your resolve chipped away, and a little bit lonelier than you were ten minutes ago.
But seriously, you love your job. More than you dread your mother’s phone calls, and certainly more than the idea of getting married and waiting on your husband’s beck and call for the rest of your life. Being a librarian was never your childhood objective, but you were such a big reader that it makes sense that you ended up surrounded by books every day. Plus, you’ve gotten to know almost every patron that walks through the library’s front door- from Mrs. Bradshaw and her son, Bradley, to the elderly lady who brings you “extra” baked goods that she claims she’s made too much of. Who cares if the label of “spinster” has been nipping at your heels since you purchased your first cardigan? It’s your life, and you’re going to live it exactly how you please.
And even if single, attractive men are a rarity to run into on the clock, that’s fine. That’s what the weekend is for. It’s not like the love of your life is going to be browsing the biographies at 2 P.M. on a Thursday anyway.
Actually, as it turns out, you find him tucked away in the horror section on a Saturday morning, halfway through a Stephen King novel.
You’re going through the holds list- or at least, you’re trying to, but Ruth Anne had been the one to jot it down, and she’s a sweet woman, but her handwriting is dogshit. Your confused wandering up and down the shelves brings you to the east end of the library next to a small area of squashy chairs piled with mismatched pillows. It’s usually empty this early in the morning, but to your surprise, one of the armchairs is occupied.
He’s around your age, which is already a shock, and he’s incredibly fit and attractive, which is even more perplexing. Most single men your age steer clear of your workplace, and you’re never lucky enough that the ones that do wander in are so handsome.
The man sits casually, legs spread to allow him to recline into the armchair’s embrace. He’s wearing a white button-down tucked into well-loved weathered jeans, and he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and undone the top three buttons. His hair is cropped short in the back and longer in the front, military style, and gelled to look as though he’s just ran his fingers through his blonde tips.
Your mother’s voice starts tapping incessantly on your eardrums, so you turn away from him to study the shelves you’re supposed to be searching. You can feel his steely, ice-blue gaze against the back of your head, and then your shoulders- and then your hips, and the backs of your legs- and up again. You’re struck with horrific visions of your skirt being tucked into your pantyhose, or a rip in your stockings, or a piece of toilet paper being stuck to the bottom of your shoe- even while you try to convince yourself you’re imagining things. Even rarer than an attractive guy visiting the library is an attractive guy setting his sights on a librarian.
You squint at the wrinkled sheet of paper in your hand and just manage to decipher that the book you’re looking for is at the very top of the shelves. With a resigned sigh, you reach up and stretch in vain to try and grab it.
“You need any help?”
“Holy Jesus-”
The voice that appears suddenly in your ear causes your entire body to jerk in surprise and your pencil to go flying out of your grip. The man from the armchair has crept up next to you without making a sound- and normally that would be creepy, but the soft, slightly sheepish smile on his lips stops you from reflexively punching him in self-defense. He also immediately bends down to rescue your pencil, which helps a bit.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes, handing over the utensil. “Can I help you grab a book?”
“That’s my line,” you joke, smiling up at him. His hands are tucked politely into his jean pockets, and you flick your eyes away from the hard lines in his forearm. “Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind? Blackwater, by McDowell, up at the very top…”
“Good choice,” he remarks, reaching up to effortlessly pluck the book from the shelf. You thank him, and then he- returns to his armchair without another word. Right. Stranger at your workplace, not the love of your life. Okay then.
You leave him in his armchair and resume your search, feeling a weird mix of relief and disappointment when your list doesn’t take you in his direction anymore.
A couple of days pass before you see him again. This time, you’re up at the front desk, stuck in a simple question turned twenty-minute phone call with a woman looking for a book you’re sure hasn’t been in print since 1957. Focused on the notepad in your hand, the only thing that alerts you to his sudden presence is the glint of sunlight off his aviators reflecting in the windows. This time, he looks like he just came straight from the beach, and you wince at the thought of books with sand stuck in between the pages. Dressed in a pair of cut-off shorts, flip-flops, and a short-sleeve button-down, he carries the scent of sun and citrus into the library.
“Ma’am,” you interrupt the woman yapping in your ear, “I’m terribly sorry, but I have to put you on hold- I’ll be back shortly.” You hang up to her offended squawk, feeling only a little guilty about your rude dismissal.
You have just enough time to nervously fluff at your hair before the man arrives at the desk, which he immediately leans his forearms and elbows on.
“Hello again,” you greet him, heart thrumming at how close he is. “What can I help you with?”
“Hello,” he replies in a quiet voice. The eye contact he holds is dangerous- unblinking, and slightly smug, as if he can tell how flustered he’s making you.
“I was looking to get a couple forms printed.”
“Sure!” you chirp, your customer service sleeper agent going on autopilot. “Follow me, our printer is just over here by our computer lab…”
You help him with the transaction in relative silence, apart from giving him instructions and thanking him for the nickel he presses into your hand for payment. You do, however, catch a glimpse of the official Navy logo at the top of a couple of pages, and grapple with the decision on whether or not that’s too personal to ask about.
“You a sailor?” you eventually ask, hoping that you don’t come off as nosy.
“Naval aviator,” he corrects, grinning boyishly. Already a thousand questions are forming on your tongue.
“Wow, that’s so interesting! Are you any good?” Really? You could have asked him anything, and that’s the one you go with?
Thankfully, your silly question makes him laugh. “I’m very good, actually. Best of the best. Just graduated first class from Top Gun a few months back. They call me Iceman.”
“Iceman?” you question, as you reach forward to shake his outstretched hand.
“Ice cold. Make no mistakes. But you can call me Tom.”
“Tom,” you repeat stupidly, and give your name in return.He repeats it slowly, in a drawl that makes heat crawl up the back of your neck and your fingers shake around the documents in your hand. When you hand the papers to him, your hands brush, and it takes all your self-control to not burst into a goofy smile.
“Thanks,” he tells you, in that same slow and sexy voice. “See you around.”
“See you,” you repeat.
You pretend to miss your mother’s call that night.
~~~
The next next time you see him, it’s Saturday again and the library is crowded- there’s a kid’s storytime, a program on diabetes, and a book club meeting. On top of that, it seems that every resident of your town woke up with the bright idea to go to the library and bother the nice young woman working at the Circulation desk with stupid ass questions.
To make matters worse, your Youth Desk attendee is out with a terrible bout of being at a concert, so you have to handle twice the amount of questions as normal. There’s a woman who cannot comprehend how late fees stay on her account even after she’s returned her books, an older woman who is perplexed that your library doesn’t carry her preferred genre of erotica, and a real gem of a man who seems to believe that calling you stupid will make the book that he’s lost magically appear on the counter right next to him.
He’s still yelling when Tom strolls in. He looks irritatingly relaxed compared to you- his hair is perfectly windswept, his beloved aviators glint perfectly in the sunlight, and he looks perfectly fucking comfortable in his service khakis. You, on the other hand, dribbled blue cheese dressing on your boobs during your lunch break. Now every time he talks to you in the future, he’ll start craving a Caesar salad.
Tom’s arrival has no effect on the douchebag in front of you, who has begun name-dropping the assistant mayor of the town like it means something.
“Listen lady, my tax dollars pay your salary. Everybody in this goddamn town has got my back. I know the mayor, the treasurer, and I know your boss. You better start telling me what I want to hear or you’re going to be out of a job.”
Briefly, you consider smashing your computer monitor over the man’s head, but ultimately decide to just repeat yourself for the eleventh time instead. You open your mouth, but a perfectly calm voice cuts you off.
“Is there a problem here?”
The asshole glances over his shoulder at Tom. “Move along buddy, we’re in the middle of something here.”
“Don’t care. Plus, you’re holding up the line.”
The man bristles, and finally turns his attention away from you to the naval aviator. To your immense delight, Tom has half a foot of height on him and about twenty pounds of muscle.
“This doesn’t concern you, jagoff. Mind your business.”
Iceman stares at him from behind his aviators. His mouth is set in a hard line, and a muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth. It dawns on you then that the name “Iceman” might apply to more than just his flying technique.
You’ve had enough. “Sir, I can’t allow you to speak to other patrons in that manner, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If you have any further complaints, feel more than free to take them up with our director. In the meantime, please go.”
You hold your breath as he stares at Tom for one beat, and then two, before finally spinning on his heel and marching out of the library. As soon as the doors shut behind him, you deflate. Your head is spinning, but you rush to apologize to Tom.
“Holy shit, I am so sorry about that.”
Ice steps forward, once again leaning unnecessarily far over the desk towards you. His aviators come off, and behind them, his eyes are gentle and concerned. Instantly, you relax just a little bit.
“Don’t apologize for that dick. Are you alright? It looked like he’d been going at you for a while, before I came in.”
You groan. “It’s been nuts all day.”
Tom smiles at you. Your stomach does a backflip. Why oh why did he have to be so attractive?
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
You shrug in response. For three agonizing seconds, he looks at you, not saying anything, an unreadable expression in his eyes, but then raps his knuckles against the wood in between you and straightens.
“I’m looking for a cookbook or two- could use your expertise.”
“What makes you think I can cook?” You ask, bewildered.
He laughs softly. “I meant at finding the cookbooks, actually. That is, if you can spare a minute?”
You really shouldn’t. It’s far too busy to be away from the desk, but your gaze catches on the mole on his chin and the glint of his dog tags peeking out from his collar, and suddenly you’re arranging your “Back in a Minute!” sign at the front of the desk before your logic and reasoning can take over.
You learn that Tom has a sweet tooth.
~~~
For the next couple of weeks, Tom continues to visit you at work. Usually short visits, asking for help with various important-sounding faxes and documents. You learn that he’s up for a promotion, and he learns that you push your hair behind your ears a lot and have a tendency to misplace your keys.
In the meantime, Slider is at his wit's end trying to figure out what’s got his best friend in such high spirits all the fucking time. All questions lead to dead ends, attempts to get him drunk and spill fail fantastically, and trying to dig through his locker to find any sort of evidence gets him caught red-handed, and then smacked in the back of the head. (All he finds is a Stephen King paperback and a roll of nickels, anyway).
There’s only one thing left to do.
Post-flight, the pair are once again in the locker room, except this time Ron has bribed Mav with ten bucks (he probably would have done it for free, the freaky bastard) to hold Ice back at the tarmac with some bullshit excuse. By the time Ice has detangled himself from the shorter spitfire, Ron has showered and changed and is now patiently waiting for him.
“So I was thinking,” Ron starts. “We hit the O Club, grab a couple drinks with the guys, hopefully get Wolfman laid. You in?”
“Can’t,” Ice calls from his shower stall. “Going to-”
“The library.” Slider finishes under his breath. He sends Hollywood a shit-eating grin. “That’s actually perfect, man. Mind if I join?”
There’s a beat of silence, filled only by the creak of the Navy’s excellent plumbing system and Rick’s snickering.
“Yeah man, I have to say I do mind.” Ice finally grits out. The shower squeaks off, and the man wrenches the shower curtain open to cast his frigid stare on his best friend.
“Oh come on, what’s your problem? It’s just the library, Ice. Not like there’s anything exciting there.”
Tom flexes his jar, and runs his fingers agitatedly through his wet hair. He stalks over to his locker to get dressed. Nice clothes, Ron notices. A leather watch, too.
“Yeah Ice, what are you even doing at the library so much anyways?” Wolfman taunts, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Picking up hot moms?”
“Shut up, hairball,” Ice quips, throwing his towel into the man’s face. “In case you forgot, I’m about to outrank you.”
“Seriously, Ice,” Hollywood adds. “There’s gotta be a girl you’re seeing. Come on, give us all the dirty details.”
Iceman rolls his eyes as he yanks his belt through his belt loops. “Jesus, can’t you fuckers just let this go? There isn’t any girl!”
“Oh, so then there’s no reason for you to mind me tagging along then,” Slider swoops in. He passes Tom his aviators, which he hooks into the collar of the white t-shirt he’s just pulled over his head.
“I guess not,” his pilot grits out. Slider waits patiently for him to slap cologne on (thankfully his own this time, instead of the shit Hollywood drenches himself in) and follows him out of the locker room with a cheeky salute to the two men they leave behind. They respond with silent cheers- knowing that no matter what happens, it’ll make a fantastic story for Monday morning.
~~~
It’s Friday afternoon, which means the library is busy. Moms want library books returned before the weekend, there’s a Girl Scout troop that meets at 6 and an HOA meeting at 6:30. It’s also become one of the days Ice comes to visit you- well, a day he visits the library, it’s not like he’s coming just to see you- and maybe he’ll have a document to fax, and you’ll get to hand him his change, or maybe he’ll ask you to help him look for a book, and you’ll get to meander down the aisles with him. Or maybe, he’ll sit at a computer and do paperwork, like last week-
Or maybe you’ll get a fucking grip. Wouldn’t that be nice?.
When the doors slide open, but the sound of stroller wheels, the padding of little feet, or the tap of a cane doesn’t reach your ears- you look up, and sure enough, there’s Tom. Freshly showered and devastatingly handsome- and- and not alone?
The tall man who accompanies him has sandy blonde hair, a large nose, and an even larger shit-eating grin. He’s swinging his keys gleefully, almost skipping due to the pep in his step.
Tom, on the other hand, has the same look on his face that every single crotchety old man who enters the library wears- sour and severely displeased. His eyes meet yours, and they soften. You can only assume the obvious discomfort is caused by his companion.
“Afternoon!” Tall Man booms. Automatically, you raise a finger to your mouth to shush him, despite the fact that the library is filled with kids that have just been unleashed onto a weekend and are therefore paradoxically loud.
Tom outright smirks at that. You tuck the smile away for later.
“Sorry ma’am.” The newcomer stage whispers. He thrusts his hand energetically over your desk, offering you a Colgate commercial-worthy set of pearls. “Slider- or you can call me Ron.”
Hesitantly, you shake his hand. His expressions and mannerisms give you an unpleasant feeling, like someone’s pulling a prank on you. When you glance at Tom, expecting reassurance, his crotchety old man face is back, which does nothing to ease your anxieties.
“Can I- can I help you with something?” you question. The question is for Slider, but your gaze flickers between the two men in the hopes of catching on to… whatever’s going on.
“You can, actually,” Tom starts to answer, but the walking Colgate ad cuts him off mid-sentence.
“I was actually looking to get a library card,” Slider interrupts. “How would I go about doing that?”
“Well, I’d need a photo ID and a secondary document with both your name and address,” you inform him. Tom looks like he’s trying to grind his teeth down to dust, and his (friend? Brother? Bane of his existence??) looks like a kid on Christmas morning.
Slider passes the necessary documents over the counter, which feels so much larger without Tom leaning his entire upper body over it. While Tom seems perfectly content to stew silently, you’ve never been a fan of awkward silence, so you find yourself trying to fill the void.
“How do you guys know each other? Are you in the Navy as well?” you ask.
“Oh, I’m his RIO,” Slider immediately jumps to answer. At your confused glance, he once again cuts Tom off to explain himself.
“Radar Intercept Officer. I handle scans, sensors, weapons. You know, the important stuff. Means I’m good with my hands.” Cue cheesy wink.
Tom looks ready to strangle him, present Girl Scouts be damned, but you just blink at him innocently.
“So you don’t actually fly the plane? Just sit in the back?”
Slider deflates like an air balloon. Tom gets a wicked gleam in his eye that makes you want to wriggle excitedly in your chair. You suppress the urge, and finish entering him into the system without any further commentary.
You give him his card along with a mind-numbingly boring spiel about due dates and overdue fines, but Slider still doesn’t budge from the counter.
“You know, I didn’t catch your name.”
You glance down pointedly at your nametag and then back up at the two men. Tom is chewing on his bottom lip in agitation, looking like he’s a minute away from dragging Slider back out into the parking lot. Slider is purposefully keeping eye contact with you, as if daring you to call him out on his lack of reading comprehension skills. You give him your name anyway, and then turn back to your computer screen, trying to give him a hint.
“That’s great, that’s really lovely. You know, Tom’s been driving us crazy back over on base these past couple of weeks.”
“Jesus, Sli, come on-”
“Yeah, every other day, ‘Oh, don’t wait up, I’m going to the library.’ I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what about the library had him so intrigued, but I gotta say-” Here, he pauses, to look you up and down- “I think I’m starting to understand.”
“Oh-kay,” you start, having finally reached your breaking point, but an unexpected voice pops up before you can start laying into him.
“Ron Kerner, what on Earth are you doing here?”
To your (and everybody else’s) immense surprise, the cavalry has arrived in the form of Carol Bradshaw, standing with one hand on her hip and the other balancing Bradley’s usual collection of books on aviation.
“Nothing,” Ron answers stupidly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Carol’s eyes shift from him to Tom and then finally to you. The recent loss of her husband had hit everyone in the community hard. You remember Goose fondly: dropping Bradley off at programs in his khakis, actually playing with him in the toy area instead of ignoring him for a newspaper like some dads do, picking up Carol’s holds and joking that “his” harlequin romances had arrived just in time for date night. You know any sorrow you might feel at his loss is incomparable to Carol’s, but had offered your support the first time she came back to the library anyway, subdued and quietly asking for books on grief and single parenthood. Your relationship bloomed from there: the offered name of a shrink you trusted earned you a coffee and a very sweet thank you note; a waived fee on a book Bradley had taken a box of crayons to earned you a lifelong friend. Now, you were proud of how far she had come and how much of her spark she had regained.
Unfortunately, part of that spark included uncontrollable nosiness. After a week of not-so-subtle questions about your love life, you considered calling your mother to see if she had gone to such extreme lengths as to exploit your friends for undercover interrogation services. But Carol’s urge to meddle turned out to be 100% original and about 1000% more powerful. When you had eventually confessed to your embarrassing and juvenile crush on “a man who comes in sometime, who you think might be in the Navy”, Carol had straight-up screamed and nearly gotten you written up. After calming down, she very intently told you you were about to make the biggest mistake of your life getting involved with a Navy man, and then she told you that Tom was a good guy and she hoped you two made it work.
Having secured Carol’s blessing had meant everything in theory but nothing in practice- Tom never came in when Carol was in with Bradley, which you took as a blessing in disguise, since she would probably scream again if she ever saw you two together, which would probably get you fired, nevermind a simple write-up.
But now she is here, and the only variable keeping her from smashing the two of your faces together like an overexcited seven-year old might with her Barbie and Ken dolls is the (still questionable) presence of Mr. Ron Kerner.
“Are you bothering my favorite librarian, Ronald?” Carol asks sharply.
“I wasn’t doing anything! Just getting a damn library card, is that a crime all of the sudden?” Slider defends himself, raising his hands in mock surrender. Tom openly smirks- you bury yours behind your computer screen.
“Well, if you’re not doing anything, you can help me carry Bradley’s books then! Perfect timing!” Unceremoniously, the pile is dumped into the tall man’s proportionately long arms, and Carol hooks her hand over his broad shoulder to start herding him back towards the kid’s section. Any traces of mischief vanish from Slider’s expression immediately, replaced by what looks to you like genuine dread. Undeterred, Carol marches him forwards, giving you a knowing look over her shoulder as she leaves.
You and Tom remain at the desk, alone. You pick a piece of lint off your cardigan. Tom whips his aviators on, then off, then on again.
“I’m sorry about hi-”
“So, your RIO, huh-”
You both smile at each other as the tension breaks. Tom takes his rightful place leant over the counter.
“Sorry about him. He’s been a shit since the day he was born,” Tom apologizes.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” you respond, leaning in in kind. “It’s about time I got a sense of what kind of company you keep.”
Tom makes a soft sound halfway between a laugh and an exasperated groan. His fingers drum silently on the granite separating you.
“Would you….” he trails off, reaching up to once again remove his sunglasses. You watch eagerly as his blonde lashes flutter against his freckled cheekbones.
“Would you… mind helping me pick out a new book? I’m sick of King.”
“Oh- yeah, of course,” you respond automatically. You push down the twinge of disappointment in your gut. Why on Earth were you expecting him to ask you out?
“Is it just King you’re sick of, or is it horror in general?” You make your way out from behind the counter, smoothing your hands down your dress as you do so. It’s a new addition to your closet- a bright shade of yellow that caught your eye in the mall and made your thoughts drift towards blue eyes and the smell of the sun. It has a v-neckline that hovers on the border between workplace appropriate and beach day, and a thick belt that cinches pretty at your waist.
Tom doesn’t respond to your question, and when you turn to see what the hold up is, his eyes are lingering on the soft cotton that flirts around your kneecaps.
“Is that a new dress?” he asks, voice a little hoarse.
And just like that, the stupid, giddy, ridiculous swoop is back in your stomach. What is wrong with you? Or, more importantly, what is wrong with him?
“Yes, it is actually! Look at the pockets-” you plunge your hands in the aforementioned pockets, and give him a twirl. And if the movement makes the dress’s skirt slide up your thighs a little, who cares! It’s Friday, after all.
Tom swallows, reaching up to once again take off his aviators, nearly poking himself in the eye before he realizes they’re still hanging from his collar.
“It’s nice,” he says stupidly. “Really pretty.”
And then, miraculously, it all clicks into place; why Slider looked so fucking satisfied when they walked in, why Carol has been meddling so much, how a man who operates a million dollar jet everyday for a living can forget how to use a fax machine twice in one week.
Tom “Iceman” Kazanksy wants to ask you out.
And apparently, the ball is in your court.
You lead him, like a horse to water, towards the adult section and then through the shelves, marching determinedly towards the very back of the library, where there’s sure to be no one to disturb you. Okay, you think to yourself. Here goes.
“So, was it horror or King?”
“Huh?” he asks, the very picture of attentiveness.
You smile gently at him. “What you’re sick of- is it the horror genre, or Mr. King himself?” A pause, and then: “Are you looking for something new?”
“I think I am,” he replies quietly.
“You think, or you know?” You round the corner towards the periodicals, a certified barren wasteland in terms of circulation- and feel a thrill shoot up your spine upon seeing it’s just as deserted as you expected it to be. “It’s very important for me to know for certain- so I can help you choose the right book, of course.”
“What sort of recommendations do you have?” Tom asks. You pause against a filing cabinet that you’re sure hasn’t been opened since 1975. He stands before you, hands in his pocket, reminding you so much of how you first met.
“Well, I know you’re not one for fantasy,” you start. He shakes his head. You tilt your head up, reach out to lay a bold hand against his chest, feeling the soft press of muscle beneath his shirt. He leans into your touch.
“And I can also rule out mystery- hmm, you only like sci-fi in movies, so that one’s out too- no thrillers, crime stories, and definitely no war novels…”
You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He seems to be in total opposition to the man you’re used to, the one who forces you to maintain eye contact with him and likes to lean into your personal space. This Tom is docile- for the first time since you’ve met, you’re in control. Or maybe you always have been, and he was just waiting for you to realize it.
“Nah, none of those.”
“Let’s see… I guess that just leaves romance. How do you feel about romance, Tom?”
Lieutenant Commander Kazansky stares at you for a beat. Something ticks in his jaw- you think it’s a smile.
The other shoe drops.
“Can I take you out to dinner sometime? Or actually- are you free tonight?”
You’re both smiling now.
“I get off at seven.”
~~~
Two weeks later, a freshly promoted Commander Kazansky strolls inside the O-Club, smug as shit in his perfectly pressed uniform. The club is just starting to swell up with officers and civilians alike- it’s a Friday night, and San Francisco has been pummeling her citizens with a brutal stretch of boiling hot temperatures. Hot bodies clamor for cool seats and cold drinks- the rattle of ice in cocktail shakers seems somehow more pronounced than normal. Back in their usual corner are the assembled forces of Slider, Hollywood, Wolfman, and Sundown- Maverick having been called in for a mission earlier that week. The men are just beginning to settle, and the first beads of condensation are just starting to drip down the glasses of their first round when Slider, naturally seeing over the heads of everyone else, notices his best friend entering the establishment. What truly splits his face into a wide grin, however, is the fact that Tom is not alone.
Dressed to the nines, hair teased to perfection, yet still carrying a cardigan slung over your forearm, is you- guided by Tom’s hand, which is pressed gently against the small of your back. Slider nudges Hollywood, who nudges Wolfman, who nudges Sundown, and they all turn to watch as the pair of you make your way to the table.
“Gentleman,” Iceman breezily greets his friends, before introducing you. You wave at them, sweet as pie.
“That’s Sundown, Wolfman, Hollywood, and you already know Slider.”
Tom’s expression gets especially wicked as he introduces his oldest and closest friend. The hand on your hand curves around your hip to tuck you firmly into his side.
“Hi Ron,” you say warmly, dutifully ignoring the mounting tension between the two men.
“Hi, Library Girl,” Slider replies, leering without shame at Tom’s very public display of affection. “Nice of you to drag your man out of that accursed place.”
“He put up a fuss, but I got to him in the end,” you play along.
Tom pulls out your chair and the pair of you join the men at their table. Ron watches the way Tom’s hand lingers close to yours. He notices how easily he’s coaxed into laughter, marveling at how it lights up his face in a way he must have missed after all these years. He catches the way he leans towards you automatically, as if he can’t help himself, and Ron realizes he might be writing his Best Man speech a little sooner than he anticipated.
Maybe he’ll ask for some help at the library.