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Tom couldn’t sleep.
This was nothing new. He’d never been a particularly good sleeper. It was maybe the only thing he wasn’t good at. He was jealous of Slider, who was out like a light minutes after he shut his eyes, anytime, anywhere.
He turned again, in his bunk, blinking against the artificially dry air of the room they shared on the carrier with Maverick, Merlin, Shogun, and Echo. The clock on the far wall read 0104.
Fuck.
It was going to be a long night.
They’d run a recon mission earlier, scouted the location for an upcoming drop. It’d gone well, routine, but he was still hopped up on adrenaline from the flight. Even after all this time, being in the cockpit of his F-14 never failed to get his blood pumping.
He’d learned a few tricks, over the years- things that could help him get to sleep. Some were more kosher than others, but most of them required privacy, which was hard to come by, at sea.
He figured, since it was becoming increasingly apparent that he wasn’t going to be getting any shuteye regardless, that it might be worth the risk.
He eased himself out of his bunk, careful not to hit his head on the one above him, where Slider was currently snoring like a freight train. He crouched by the bed- if you could call the hard, metal platform that- and stuck his hand below the mattress, feeling around blindly until his fingers brushed against what he was looking for. He fished out the innocuous cloth pouch, squeezing it one, carefully, to make sure what he needed was in there.
Score.
Bag secured, he set about pulling his discarded uniform back on, that way, if he did run into the skeleton crew, he could pass his presence off as one of them. He made sure his shirt was neatly buttoned, tucked into the waistband of his slacks, as he ran the leather belt through the loops at his waist. He quickly eased on his boots, careful not to make a sound. Satisfied, he tucked the pouch under his arm, and quietly eased the door open to slip out of the room.
After shutting the door behind himself, he waited a breath to make sure he hadn’t disturbed anyone inside, before making his way down the hallway to the common room down the hall. It was a space for them to socialize, equipped with a ping-pong table, a radio, and a few old sofas- though, you could hardly call them that- glorified benches, really. He eased the door open, unsurprised, but relieved nonetheless, to find it empty.
He sat down on one of the benches, removed his boots, crossing his legs under himself. He set the pouch down on the small, low table in front of him, unzipped it, and carefully tipped out its contents. There was a glint of light reflected back at him as one of the needles slipped out, clattering noisily against the table.
Shit, he whispered, reaching out to stop it from rolling off the surface, mindful to avoid the sharp point.
He carefully picked up the needle, pinched it between his forefinger and thumb, and felt a wave of calm wash over him from the contact alone.
We all have our vices, he thought.
“Ice? You okay?”
Tom jumped at the voice, spinning around to see Maverick, of all possible people, hovering in the doorway- had he forgotten to shut the door behind himself?- looking at him wide-eyed. He was in his boxers and a t-shirt, barefooted, hair sticking out in all directions.
Tom spun back around just as quickly, nearly giving himself whiplash, and pawed at the paraphernalia he had laid out in front of him, shoving it back into its bag.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he said hurriedly, as he heard Maverick’s footsteps approaching, scrambling for the small plastic tube that held his finer needles.
“I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Mav retorted, bending down to pick up one of the larger needles where it had fallen to the floor. He held it carefully, inspecting it under the yellow light leaking in from the hallway.
Tom snatched it out of his grasp, mindful of the points, and felt a burning shame.
“Iceman,” Maverick intoned, dead serious. “Were you knitting?”
Tom couldn’t fight the blush spreading up the back of his neck to his ears any longer.
“Oh my God,” Maverick continued, delighted. “You were!” -a gasp- “Oh my God. You knit!”
“Shut up,” Tom muttered, shoving the pouch between his back and the flimsy cushion behind it. The small ball of tightly wound yarn and row of pointy metal needles were pressed uncomfortable against his spine.
“No- hey!” Mav grinned, reaching around Tom’s body to grab the bag. Tom blocked him with his arm, leaning back more firmly to keep it wedged there. “Let me see!”
“No, stop it,” Tom seethed, acutely aware of the open door behind them.
“Please?” Mav asked, tilting his head a little to the side. He looked like a puppy begging for table scraps. Tom hated that he found it endearing. He didn’t allow himself to entertain that line of thought for long.
“I said no!” He snapped, probably a bit too harshly, glaring.
Mav deflated a little, at that. With a twinge of guilt, Tom watched him glance up at the door. He tracked him with his gaze as Maverick stepped back around the sofa to shut it, and then returned to his spot in front of Tom. He lowered himself lightly onto the coffee table, which groaned under his weight.
“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Mav said, more seriously, now. “I uh- I know a thing or two about having things you don’t want anyone else to know about.”
Tom quirked an eyebrow.
“Is that right, Mitchell?” He drawled, snatching the opportunity to regain some footing.
Maverick shrugged, looked away, soft smile betrayed by sad eyes.
And well shit, that wasn’t much better. Tom didn’t like it when Maverick was sad, especially when it was from his own doing. Angry, maybe a bit. Heated- sure. But sad? No, that was no good.
“Okay- fine,” he sighed, reaching behind him to grab the bag. “But if you make fun of me, I’m going to kick your ass so hard you’ll be too sore to sit in your Tomcat.”
Maverick laughed, surprised. “Is that a promise?”
Tom didn’t have the patience to unpack whatever the Hell that meant, so he ignored him in favor of delicately opening the small, zippered pouch to remove the yarn and the needles, four of which were attached to his current project.
“It’s a sock,” he explained, offering it over. “Well- it will be, anyway. I don’t get many opportunities to work on it, here.”
He watched as Maverick inspected it, holding the project gingerly between his large, calloused fingers. His gaze was reverent, and Tom felt like his chest had been cracked open.
“My sister taught me,” he continued, “when we were kids. We spent a lot of time on the road. I like keeping my hands busy.”
“I know you do,” Maverick murmured. At Tom’s raised brow, he quickly added, “I just mean- you’re always spinning that pen around.”
“Right,” Tom nodded, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat.
“It’s beautiful,” Maverick said, tracing the tip of his finger along the wool.
“It’s not much,” Tom muttered, feeling a bit embarrassed. He wasn’t sure what was weirder: that Maverick was looking at it so closely or that Tom was worried about what he’d think about it. Both of those thoughts were too overwhelming to contend with.
“The, uh, the blue matches your eyes,” Maverick pointed out.
“My eyes are green,” Tom frowned.
“I mean, sure, but they look blue, in the sunlight,” Pete argued, his own gaze still downcast.
And well, Tom didn’t have the energy to figure out what that meant, either, right now. It was too much, suddenly. The proximity between them was suffocating.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he passed the few rows of cuff Tom had managed to complete in his handful of stolen moments back to him. Their fingers brushed as the fabric exchanged hands.
The phantom heat still on his fingertips, Tom went to stow the project away. But then Maverick reached out and touched his wrist, stopping him.
“Show me?” He asked, earnestly.
“I- what?” Tom’s frown deepened.
“Um, I want to watch,” Maverick shrugged.
“You want to watch me knit.”
“Yeah,” Maverick said, shy smile playing on his lips. Tom’s gaze flickered down in time to catch his tongue dart out to wet them.
Oh, Jesus Christ, Tom thought, What the Hell.
“Um, okay, I guess,” Tom fished around for the fifth needle, which was still in the pouch. He carefully unfolded the project, mindful not to let any of the stitches come off. He settled against the armrest, tucking his legs back underneath him, sparing a wary glance at Maverick, who, to his surprise, was looking back at him with nothing but an open expression of curiosity- the same one he wore when they went over flight plans or new tactics maneuvers together. This was weird. Tom considered poking himself with one of the needles on purpose- half-convinced he was dreaming.
He set about starting the next round. It took him a second to get the hang of it again, and his fingers were a little shaky under Maverick’s watchful gaze, but eventually muscle memory kicked in and he was working across each needle in turn, making steady progress.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he got a few good rounds in, and, at some point, Maverick moved from his perch on the coffee table to the spot opposite Tom on the sofa. Despite Tom’s weak protests, he had his bare feet wedged under Tom’s thigh, cold toes flexing up against his muscle. Eventually, Maverick dozed off, head tilted onto the sofa backrest.
Tom scrubbed his hand against his eyes, which were becoming heavy lidded.
Tom put away his project.
He carefully dislodged Maverick’s feet and shifted so that his legs were extended out in front of him, up alongside Maverick’s. His socked foot brushed Maverick’s hip.
He spared one more glance at his wingman, who was still sleeping peacefully where he lay, and another at the clock, which read 0321.
They had at least an hour until anyone from their crew would be up.
Tom shut his eyes, and mercifully, fell asleep.