Archive of Our Own

Everyone was born with a little magic - it was a simple fact of life. Some people had a stronger connection to their magic, some people had more powerful expressions of their magic, some people just simply had more useful kinds of magic. Some people had mundane magic, things like the ability to charge small devices without a power source, or the ability to stay dry in a rainstorm, or the ability to keep a pocket of cool air around them no matter the season.

Others had more potential, more power: the ability to throw lightning, to freeze the water in the air around them, to move objects with their mind.

Pete was a mechanomancer - he couldn't do anything flashy, but he could 'talk' to machines, particularly engines. It made him a fantastic mechanic, and one hell of a fighter pilot.

Not that it had mattered all that much in the end.

They'd thrown him out just as fast as anyone else when someone caught him kissing a man and blackmailed him about it. He refused to out the other man, and he only found out years later that his partner had spilled the beans instantly, hadn't even tried to cover for him.

He served his sentence though, and while he'd been left with some souvenirs in the form of scars wrapped around his wrists, he was free now.

So he'd started over. He didn't leave San Diego, too drawn to the ocean, the coastline and its long beaches. If he was being honest with himself, he stayed out of spite too. He didn't need the Navy to be happy. He should have known that no matter how much he gave of himself, they'd never value it, value him. The Mitchell name had carried a shadow too deep for him to step out of it.

He was a mechanic now, independent because it was a pain in the fucking ass to get hired anywhere as a felon, and he worked with particularly difficult vehicles that others couldn't repair. Or wouldn't repair without charging an arm and a leg. Pete made a name for himself again, and started gathering clients who would seek him out first, not trusting anyone else with their precious cars and bikes, especially the antiques.

Pete missed flying supersonic, and he probably always would, but that didn't stop him from buying the husk of a non-functioning Cessna and slowly collecting parts to rebuild it.

After over a year in a cell, he's found a new appreciation for food, and has started seeking out the best restaurants for any particular cuisine in the area. He's been working his way through the Italian restaurants around him lately, slowly spiraling outward from his workshop, trying each one and taking notes.

Today's Italian restaurant, Tony's Bistro, is one he's excited to try; it's either going to be so horrible that he'll be fighting off food poisoning for the next three days, or it'll be the best he's eaten in his life. It's a little spot downtown, wedged between some larger buildings, and it has bizarre hours. It's Tuesday, which, if the hours sign he'd driven past was correct, meant they'd be open from 1:15 pm to 3:25 pm for lunch.

It was the kind of joke that would lead to someone mentioning money laundering, but Pete's found enough little hole-in-the-wall joints like it that it would indicate a truly staggering amount of mobs in just downtown San Diego. He also doubts the little Korean grandma that made the best kimchi he's ever tried was a mobster. But hey, maybe she was full of surprises. He supports women's wrongs and all that - it wasn't like it took much to get locked up.

He pulls up to a spot on the street in front of the little restaurant, parking his bike and dropping a quarter into the meter. It's 1:34 pm, so the place should be open and ready to take orders. It doesn't look open, besides the little sign on the door, but Pete doesn't let that stop him. He pulls on the door handle, and is satisfied to find it unlocked, stepping into the tiny dining area. The lights are low, and it's a tossup whether it's intentional mood lighting or money-saving refusal to spend more on electricity. There's four tables, two booths against the front windows and two further in, and little else. Pete glances around but doesn't see a sign demanding he wait to be seated, so he drops into the nearest booth. Not that there's any waitstaff loitering around waiting to serve him, but still. He'll wait a few minutes before he tries to find someone to bring him a menu.

Pete gives it five minutes, and then amends that to ten, but someone finally comes out after seven. He's not sure what he expected, but a tall, blond man with piercing blue eyes was not it. The man's expression is inscrutable, his gaze narrowed, but he comes over to the table all the same. Notably, he is not carrying a menu or a notepad.

"What are you doing here?" Tall, Blond, and Serious asks.

Pete makes a show of glancing at his watch, before grinning up at him, "Well, judging by the time, I'm here for lunch."

"You're here for lunch." The man stares him down, and Pete wonders if there's some magic to those eyes. Now that he looks closer, he's not sure he can pin the color down to something as simple as 'blue'.

"Sign on the door said you're open," Pete points to it, wondering if this is how the restaurant always ran. It's almost like he doesn't want customers. "You got a menu?"

"No," the man says, and Pete blinks in surprise. "Chef's special is gnocchi."

Pete was not dissuaded so easily, and he was not about to just miss one of the restaurants on his lists because the waiter was a little difficult. "I'll take that, then," he says, with his most charming smile.

"Fine," the man says, still watching him warily, before he turns around and walks back into the kitchen.

He wonders, idly, if he's about to get fleeced for all he's got. No menu meant no listed price, and he certainly didn't ask. It'll be funny, in any case. Showing up to say he can't pay the rent on his garage because some asshole - who he's pretty sure is Russian and not Italian - overcharged him for potato pasta.

The man leaves Pete with a long, long time to think about it. He can hear noise in the back, so something is happening, but he's not sure what. Surely if it was the special then they'd have prepped to serve it? Half an hour later, he's not so sure. Forty-five minutes, and he starts to wonder if this is a tactic to get him bored enough (or hungry enough) to just give up.

Fifty-seven minutes later, and over halfway through their operating hours for the day, the door to the kitchen swings open, and Tall, Blond, and Serious is back, carrying a steaming plate of gnocchi. Pete wonders, for a moment, if there's other staff in here, but he can see a smudge of flour on the man's forehead, and he realizes- "Did you just make those? From scratch?" he asks, surprised.

"You ordered them," the man says, his lip curling down at the corner.

"I did," Pete assures quickly, just in case the guy decides to take that delicious-smelling plate back away from him now that he's starving.

"Did you think I went for a little drive down the street to some second-rate restaurant to grab you a to-go box?" he asks as he sets the plate down in front of Pete.

"After an hour, I didn't know what to expect," Pete laughs. "But this smells incredible." It looks good, too. It's not doused in any sauce, just covered in cheese, and if he looks closely, it seems like the dough itself had cheese in it.

"Uh-huh," the man says, setting down a note at the edge of the table, clearly handwritten and presumably his bill. He leaves him to it, then, turning on his heel and heading for the back.

Pete watches him go for a moment, before turning to dig in - he really was starving, and he knew gnocchi was best fresh and hot.

And it really was good, holy shit. He can't remember the last time he had gnocchi like this - it nearly melts in his mouth, and the cheese is sharp and brings a perfect little pop of flavor. He pulls out his little notebook, the book he carries as a replacement to the logbook he doesn't have a use for anymore, and starts writing in the next open line, starting with the name of the restaurant, the date, what he ordered, and his thoughts on it. He gets to the end of the line, and then realizes he still hasn't looked at the check.

He puts his pen down and pulls the paper over as he chews, and then he has to set his fork down and look at it closer. There has to be a mistake. Except it very clearly says $7.50. The seven is crossed, the decimal is clear. There's no misreading it. He writes it down in his notebook, bemused.

The guy - waiter-chef-owner? - doesn't come back out, so Mav can't ask. He shakes his head once as he finishes up his meal, cleaning the plate, catching every last strand of cheese. He waits a little longer to see if the man will come out, but he doesn't, and it's now nearly the end of the day's posted working hours, so he just pulls out his wallet and leaves a twenty on the table.

He pauses at the door on his way out and copies down the hours into his book, knowing he's going to come back. The place is only open three days a week: Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. The Monday hours are closer to dinner time, and Thursday looks like brunch-ish? The place didn't seem like a brunch spot, not even mentioning the fact that no one sane went to brunch on Thursdays.

Every oddity piled onto the list just piques his curiosity further. He looks forward to seeing the 'menu' the next time he comes.

—

Life goes on. Pete continues down the list of his Italian restaurants to try, but he starts going back to Tony's at least once a week. It's always the same guy there, and there's never a menu. The evening specials on Mondays tend to be larger pasta dishes, though sometimes they wander into things like chicken wings. Thursday's brunch specials tend to be pastry-based or at the very least bread-heavy. The Tuesday lunches are often pizzas and Pete figures the gnocchi must have been a one-off. There's still only ever one option on the menu, but it's delicious every time. It's also clear that Tall, Blond, and Serious is the one making it, every time. He really does need to ask what the guy's name is, and resolves to do that the next time he goes.

It happens to be a Thursday, and he walks through the door with a grin, calling out a friendly, "Yo!" as he drops into his usual booth, the same as the one he'd sat in the first time. The guy keeps him waiting a few minutes, but it's never as long as that first day's seven minute wait.

"Back again, are you?" he asks, an eyebrow raised. "What, every other cafe in the area closed?"

"Nope," Pete shrugs, "None of them have what you do."

"You don't even know what that is," the man replies drily.

"So, what is it today?" Pete grins.

"Eggs In Purgatory," he answers.

Pete snorts, and then, when the man's expression doesn't change, he realizes he's serious.

"What the hell is that?" He laughs.

"No, the eggs are in hell," the guy responds. "Guess you'll find out if you order it."

"Fine, yeah, give me the tormented eggs. You got coffee, too?" he asks, realizing by now that a drink won't be offered if he doesn't ask for one.

"Sure," the man says, with that same intense look he always gives him. Part wary, part…amused? He's not sure if he's imagining the last part.

"So…I've been meaning to ask," he says, before the man can turn away. "Who's Tony?"

"Do you see anyone else around here?" the man - Tony? - responds.

Pete shrugs. "I dunno, you just don't really look like a Tony," he says.

"Sorry to disappoint," Tony says drily.

"Well," Pete says, offering him his hand. "I'm Pete," he says, with a warm grin, "'s'only fair."

Tony tips his head and shakes his hand, his grip firm and warm. His hand is calloused, though not in a way that he'd expect of a chef.

Pete lets go, relaxing back into the booth as Tony leaves him to go back into the kitchen. He comes out a little later with a pot of coffee and a mug for him, dropping them off without a word before he vanishes again.

He's made it halfway through the pot when Tony comes back with a bowl.

"So, what sins did the eggs commit?" Pete asks, grinning as he sits up.

"Avarice," he replies without hesitation.

"The eggs were greedy?" Pete laughs.

"Yes." Tony sets the bowl down before him, and Pete sees that the tomato sauce around the poached eggs is still bubbling. He supposes that's the 'purgatory' part of the dish.

Pete expects him to leave, but Tony deviates from the norm and stays out with him this time. He notices now that he was carrying a mug, and he picks up Pete's pot of coffee and pours himself a mug too. Pete watches him in bemusement.

"Don't wait on my account," Tony says drily.

Pete shrugs and digs in, dipping his spoon into the sauce and pulling one of the eggs up. He takes a bite and blinks in surprise when he gets a kick of spice from the sauce. The eggs are somehow silky, perfectly poached, and Pete can't help the low indecent groan at how good it is.

Tony watches him, something inscrutable in his gaze.

"Damn," Pete breathes. "Top five for sure," he says between bites.

"You've only been here six times," Tony points out.

"Keeping track, are ya?" Pete asks with a grin.

"Does it look like I get many other customers?" he asks.

Pete concedes the point with a nod as he continues eating. In all the times he's been here, he's never seen anyone else enter or eat here.

Tony waits until he's most of the way through the dish, pausing to sip his coffee while it's still warm, before he speaks again. "What are you really doing here, Pete?" he asks.

"What? I'm here for brunch," Pete replies, frowning a little as he gestures at the mostly-empty bowl in front of him.

"Uh-huh. And what do you do?" Tony asks,and something in his gaze flashes. His eyes suddenly look really blue, and Pete finds himself entranced. Somehow it doesn't feel like this is just small talk anymore.

"I'm a mechanic," Pete answers, confused. "Why, what do you do?" he asks, before realizing that's a silly question.

Tony's eyes are still too-blue as he answers. "I'm a mob boss," he says drily.

"What? Really?" Pete asks, blinking in surprise.

"No, dumbass. I run a restaurant, remember?" he gestures pointedly at the space they're in. Pete can't help but notice that his eyes are back to their usual mystery-gray-green-blue color.

Pete ducks his head a little sheepishly, though he's smiling anyway. "Right, right," he laughs. "Why the sudden curiosity?" he asks as he sets to finishing up his meal.

Tony shrugs. "Seems I'm not getting rid of you any time soon," he says drily. "May as well ask."

Pete grins. "No you are not," he confirms. "Not when you make food this good." Which makes him wonder, actually, "you could have always just made me a bad dish that first day."

"Like hell," Tony growls, his expression surprisingly animated. "I'm not going to brutalize my recipes just to drive someone off."

He laughs, startled. "Recipe integrity matters to you, got it," he says, grinning.

Tony huffs, setting down the usual note at the end of the table. "Yes, it does." He stops leaning against the other bench and heads back for the kitchen with no warning.

Pete would almost wonder if he'd offended him, but somehow he gets the feeling he hadn't.

The check is once again criminally underpriced, and Pete makes sure to drop another twenty on the table on his way out.

—

Of course, Tony's wasn't open every day - or even for every meal on the days it was open - so Pete rotates in some of his favorites from other cuisines he'd already worked his way through. The little Japanese spot by the port had great lunch deals, and the Korean spot run by that little grandma made incredible dinners.

Pete didn't indulge in many luxuries, but he ate out for almost every meal. The freedom to choose what he got to eat was overwhelming at first, and is why he'd started with the notebook, methodically working his way through one cuisine at a time. He's been at it for long enough that he now has a favorite little hole-in-the-wall spot for nearly every cuisine. Tony's is just the latest in his collection, the first Italian restaurant to make the list.

It may be a weird little restaurant, but they all had their quirks. It doesn't occur to him that there's anything all that strange about it - he supposed it was just Tony's hobby and that he had some other full-time job that actually paid the bills.

It reminds him a little of the best food truck in town - one he has to actively hunt down if he's in the mood for a good rack of tacos. They never park in the same spot, and more often than not they're at some abandoned lot in a hidden corner of the city.

It's been a few weeks since he's run into them, which means that when he spots them that next Tuesday on his way to Tony's, he pulls over and changes his lunch plans for the day.

Andres seems particularly excited to see him, and Pete can't help the grin as he walks up to the window.

"How's the engine holding up?" he asks, patting the side of the truck. He doesn't try to interface with the machine, though he's tempted to check in on it after they'd brought it to him once with a mystery problem they couldn't get diagnosed elsewhere.

"Like she's brand new," Andres confirms with a warm smile. "What are you in the mood for today?"

"I'll take the fish tacos," Pete decides after a cursory glance at the menu.

"Coming right up," Andres confirms. He tries to not let Pete pay as thanks for his work on the truck, but Pete won't have that, paying by just shoving the cost of his tacos into the tip jar instead. Andres sighs when he sees it, but doesn't try to make him take it back.

The tacos are delicious, and Pete doesn't really think anything of it except to be happy he spotted the truck again.

—

What he doesn't expect is for Tony to be miffed about him not showing up on Tuesday. Well…miffed isn't quite the right word, but Pete can't put his finger on it yet.

"Sorry," Pete says with an apologetic smile, "I ran into a food truck I almost never see, had to take a detour." He hadn't thought he was anything more than an annoyance to Tony, though, so this is new.

"Should've known not to start planning my ingredients orders," Tony says irritably.

"Aww, did you miss me, Tony?" Pete asks, with a bright, mischievous grin.

"Not on your life," Tony grumbles, though it's not particularly heated.

"I won't let you down again," Pete vows, mostly teasingly. Not quite entirely, because he's found that he actually really does like coming here, not just for the food. Especially once Tony started keeping him company while he ate. He'd actually started talking a little more than he had that first time, too. It's mostly nothing important, just them shooting the shit together, but Pete caught his attention once when he talked about one of the bikes he was fixing up, and that's when he knew that they were kindred spirits.

He learns that Tony likes fast, expensive bikes, though he prefers the newer ones. Nobody's perfect, though, and Pete himself likes those bikes too even if they're not his favorites. He learns that Tony's Russian, and when asked why he decided to open an Italian restaurant, the man had shrugged and said he grew up with a mother who loved Italian cuisine and taught him a lot of those recipes.

Pete isn't obsessed, but he is drawn in, and he finds himself looking forward to Mondays coming around, the end of a three-day period where Tony's would be closed. Those three meals, Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, quickly become his favorite part of the week, and he makes sure to never schedule clients for his garage at the times Tony's is open. He finds himself spending the entirety of the man's operating hours there, taking his time with his meal, just sitting there once it's done and working on a pot of coffee with Tony himself as they shot the shit.

It's been a few months since he found the spot, and he'd like to think that he and Tony are almost-friends, maybe. Not that he thinks he has a chance, really. Even if the gorgeous man wasn't straight, that didn't mean he'd be attracted to Pete, and he didn't want to make things weird by flirting with him while he was a customer. And he didn't really have any chances to see Tony without that dynamic, so he just has to be satisfied with what he does get.

It has to be enough.

—

That all changes one unremarkable Friday in June. It's gray and cloudy, and Pete finds himself at the burger stand on the beach for lunch. He'd had the urge to feel the sand between his toes, and with the heavy marine layer lurking around the edges of his vision, the beach was fairly empty.

He takes off his boots, setting them by the edge of the building while he waits for his food, peeling off his socks and tossing one into each boot. He nods his thanks when they call his name, taking his burger and soda and setting off on an easy stroll down the beach, eating as he walks. It's quiet, with only the sound of the crashing waves to keep him company. There's no screaming, no running children, no surfers waiting for a set shouting to each other. Just Pete, the ocean, and his burger.

The last thing he expects, then, as he approaches the underside of the pier, is for someone to jump out from behind one of the posts and take a swing at him.

"The hell-?" he lunges back as they grab for him, throwing his soda at his assailant - unfortunately in a plastic bottle, not glass.

He doesn't see the second guy, who jumps him from behind, and barely notices the third before his hands are on him.

"Hey- let go!" Pete growls, dropping his half-eaten burger to grapple back and try to break free. He's just lost his lunch, and now he's pissed.

He throws an elbow into one attacker's face, and he thinks he makes contact with the guy's nose, because he spits a muffled curse and stumbles away. He's seen worse odds than this - in the prison yard, anyway - but he didn't exactly win that fight, either.

"You motherfucker-" the man curses.

Pete whirls, trying to get his back to the post, to keep all three of them in view. The guy clutching his nose and spitting blood into the sand is his first target - he needs to press his advantage if he wants to get out of this.

He's just starting to think he can turn the tide - ironic, given that his back is to the ocean - when the asshole with the broken nose raises his hands. Pete has the sudden, horrible feeling that he's fucked. A moment later, he hears the roar of the ocean behind him, and he barely manages to turn around and look before the wave takes him out. He feels his head hit the post of the pier, and then nothing.

—

Pete wakes up in a chair, which is unusual. It's been a while since he was so tired he fell asleep at his workbench - or kept up so late from nightmares and insomnia to crash there. The next thing he notices is that his feet are cold, and then he realizes he's barefoot on concrete; he doesn't do that, either. He always wears shoes in his garage. The third thing he realizes is that he can't move his arms, and he rolls his neck to look and see that- that he's been taped to a chair.

"Whuh-?" he asks, his mouth dry.

A fist connects with his cheek, and he's suddenly a lot more awake, yelping in shock as his head snaps to the side with the force of it. "The fuck-"

"Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell," a man says, standing in front of him, leaning casually against the edge of a table.

"That's not-" he blinks, trying to focus on him. "How do you know that?"

"Please," the man says, rolling his eyes. "We are not amateurs." Pete decides to dub him Ego One.

Pete's vision focuses enough for him to realize the guy behind Ego One is familiar… "Andres?" he asks, a little plaintive and a lot betrayed.

The man at least has the grace to look guilty, glancing away from him.

Ego One snaps his fingers in front of Pete's face, yanking his attention back to him with a scowl. "This is not a game. You will tell us what we want to know, and I may even let you go."

"Hardly a compelling argument," Pete grumbles. He's no stranger to being intimidated, and there's little left they can take from him that hasn't been taken from him before.

"You want to be difficult. Let's be difficult, then." The man gestures to someone behind Pete, indicating them to come forward with two fingers.

Pete tries to turn and see, but whoever's behind him grabs his head and holds him still as something sharp jabs into his neck. The sensation quickly turns cold and uncomfortable, and he thrashes as they inject him with something. "What the hell-"

"Truth serum," Ego One replies. "Easy enough to get your hands on when your Sniffer is busy."

"The fuck, you got a dog or something?" Pete asks, jerking away from the hand holding his head as they pull the needle free.

"Or something," Ego One says drily. "Let's start with the basics. Where were you before you went to prison?"

What Pete means to say is 'up your ass'. What comes out of his mouth is, "Navy." He stares in shock, fighting the tape that's binding him to the chair.

"Good," the man grins. "What is your current job?"

"Mechanic," Pete answers, wondering what the hell these guys want with him. "Is this about the truck? Your guys told me it was fixed-" he says, instinctually covering for Andres even though he really probably shouldn't be.

Ego One frowns like that isn't the answer he expected, which is weird, because Pete very clearly cannot lie. "Even more basic, it seems. Your birthday is…?"

Pete tries not answering, but it hurts, the sensation wrapping around his throat and tightening, until he gasps a rough, "Fourth of July."

The man nods, looking a little more satisfied. "Tell me why you've been scoping out our various fronts. What do these notes mean?" He holds up Pete's notebook, and Pete surges forward against the chair, seized by a sudden fury.

"Give that back-" he growls.

"What, you don't want me to read this?" He starts flipping through the notes, frowning as he apparently doesn't find what he's looking for. "What does this code mean?" he asks.

"What are you talking about?" Pete asks, teeth gritted. "I didn't write in any code."

Ego One raises an eyebrow. "You cannot expect me to believe that this is just a collection of restaurant reviews."

"What the fuck else would they be?" Pete's exasperated, and he should maybe watch his tone, given his current situation, but he can't help it.

"Let's try this," the man sighs. "Tell me everything you know about Ice."

Pete stares at him. He opens his mouth, and then stalls. "Uh…it's frozen water?"

Ego One's lip twitches, and that's all the warning Pete gets before another fist meets his face. He cries out, his cheek stinging, and he glares balefully at the man in charge.

"Don't fucking play dumb with me," the man growls. "I've never tried dosing someone twice, but I'm more than willing to turn you into a guinea pig."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pete insists.

"Iceman. The Iceman. You're reporting to him. What have you told him?" the man asks, clearly getting impatient.

"I don't know who that is!" Pete pleads. How does he prove he means it, if they're doubting their own bullshit they dosed him with? "I don't know what you're talking about. Fuck, I don't even know who you are."

Ego One stares at him, eyes narrowed. "Let's try something else," he says, tipping his head to someone, and then there's suddenly a bag thrown over his head as he's cut free from the chair and manhandled upright. "If you won't talk, we'll just send a message instead."

Pete shudders a little in fear, can't help the subconscious reaction, very much aware how out of his depth he is here. His magic's useless unless he can get his hands on heavy machinery, and that's not going to happen, obviously.

They drag him a long way, through doors and down halls, until they toss him in the back of a van. He spots his opening, twists and tries to get his hands in contact with the car, but Ego One shouts and then someone's jumping up and pinning him down, keeping him facedown on the van with his hands behind his back. "Fuck-" he spits, writhing a little, fighting it until the man puts a knee into his side, knocking the breath out of him.

They drive him somewhere, and they don't let him up off the floor the whole time. He can feel the textured metal floor digging into his cheek.

Suddenly the van stops and they rip the bag off his head and kick him out the open back doors. Pete lands in the street with a grunt, but his hands aren't bound anymore and he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling upright.

"Go on, run and get Iceman, he'll help you," the guy in the back of the van taunts, pulling a gun and pointing it at him.

Pete stumbles backwards, eyes wide, holding his hands up placatingly. "I don't- I don't know what you want from me," he tries.

The man points behind him with the gun, and Pete glances over his shoulder. He realizes suddenly he knows where he is, that they're pointing at Tony's. "What-?" he asks.

"Tell him Capitano sends his regards," the man rumbles.

"I don't- the Italian restaurant?" he asks, fighting the sour curl of discomfort in his gut as he sidesteps the truth, pretending he's never been here before.

"Don't play stupid. Go on," the man insists.

"It's Friday." Is it still Friday? It doesn't matter, it definitely hasn't been three whole days. "It's not open," Pete says, like they're stupid. They might be.

"He's in there. Get fucking moving, or I'll send you with some new piercings," the guy clicks off the safety, the sound somehow loud even with the distance Pete had put between himself and the van.

"Okay- jesus," Pete growls, stumbling back, watching the van. He nearly trips on the sidewalk, falling backward and catching himself on the parking meter. He keeps watching the van, but the guy's laughing at him, so maybe he's not about to be shot.

Eventually he has to turn around to find the door, and he lurches forward, off-balance and disoriented. He gets to the front door, to the sign that very plainly says 'Closed', and he tries the door.

Obviously, it doesn't open. Because the restaurant is closed on the weekends.

He gestures at the door when he looks at the van again, and the man replies by gesturing with his gun again.

Pete turns back to the door with a frown, trying it again. Then he knocks on the glass, feeling stupid, but it's that or get shot apparently, so he'll take the feeling dumb.

Nothing happens.

He knocks again, staring at his own reflection in the tinted glass, a facsimile of a mirror, not quite solid, dark around the edges. Dark like it is inside the restaurant. The restaurant which is closed.

He knocks one last time, wondering how long those assholes expect him to stand out here, but then suddenly he sees something move. He presses his face up to the glass and realizes the door to the kitchen is swinging open, and then- and then Tony is stalking across the dining room, glaring at the door. He spots Pete though and stalls, his stride stuttering for a moment before he continues his path to the door, brow furrowed in concern now.

Pete backs up a step, though it's more a stumble, and he's not sure he can stay upright much longer.

It occurs to him suddenly that Tony's about to open the door to a van with armed fucking goons aiming guns at the door, and his eyes widen in alarm. He jerks his head toward the van that's just out of view of the door, and Tony's hand stills on the lock for a second. He reaches behind himself, pulling his hand behind his back, and it makes his shirt stretch taut over his broad shoulders. Damn.

The sound of the door unlatching manages to snap him back to reality, and he manages a low, "Tony-" as the door opens.

Everything happens in blur, then. The door opens, and Tony's looking at him alone, right up until the gunshots aimed at the sidewalk between them, at the restaurant door. The glass shatters, and Tony moves lightning-quick, that hand that was behind his back reappearing with a gun of his own. Huh. Tony fires back, and then the van's tires are squealing loud as they peel away to safety.

As soon as they turn the corner, Tony turns back to Pete. "Pete-" he says, reaching for him.

Pete stumbles forward, tries to say he's fine, but the words don't come, and then suddenly Tony's holding him up.

"What- what happened, Pete?" Tony asks, looking thrown. Pete hasn't seen that expression on him since he first found this restaurant. He doesn't keep him there in the street, pulling Pete into the dining room. He closes and latches the restaurant door behind them, though it's undermined a little by the lower half of the door missing the glass.

"Uh…" Pete says, not really sure where to start.

Tony doesn't stop, pulling him back through the dining room and through the next door, into the kitchen. He stops at a little wooden chair by a table in the back, sitting Pete down on it before turning to latch the kitchen door too. "Pete. Who did this to you?" he asks, and his eyes are that sky-bright blue again.

"I don't- uh…I don't know. Those guys said Capitano?" he offers. "Your eyes are pretty," he adds, because it's true, and the truth demands saying.

"What-?" Tony blinks, staring at him. He grips Pete's jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle, as he holds his head still and looks into Pete's eyes. "Did they give you something?"

"Mm. Yeah," Pete nods. "Said it was truth serum. Kept asking me questions about ice?" He's still confused about that part.

Tony freezes, his jaw going tight. "What did you tell them?" he asks.

"Uh…that it's frozen water?" Why does Tony think he'd have anything different to say?

"They didn't tell you-?" Tony frowns at him. His gaze is still that bright, piercing blue.

"Tell me what-? What's going on, Tony?" Pete doesn't try to pull away from his hand, finding himself surprisingly at ease in his grasp.

"They wanted you to tell them about me," Tony responds. He glances past Pete, and when he meets his gaze again, his eyes are gray-green once more. "And-" he hesitates, for just one moment. "It's Tom."

"What?" Pete asks, rapidly losing the plot.

"I'm not Tony," Tony- Tom? - answers.

"Ha-" Pete grins, victorious. "Told you you didn't look like a Tony."

Tom stares at him, flabbergasted. "That's what you're taking from this?"

"We should fuck," Pete decides sagely. "You look like you're a good kisser."

"What? Jesus, Pete, how much did they give you?" Tom asks, though Pete thinks he can see the tips of his ears reddening.

"What makes you think I know?" Pete pouts, upset that he can't answer him, that he can't do it right.

Tom's free hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he sighs. "Okay. Did they- did they give you anything else?"

"Couple'a knuckle sandwiches," Pete replies, grinning a little. "Oh, and a knee, I think." The world behind Tom starts to spin a little, and he frowns. "Think 'm gonna- take a nap," he says. It's that or throw up, and one sounds far more pleasant.

"Fuck, Pete-" Tom starts, but if he says anything else, Pete doesn't hear it, slumping boneless into the seat as the exhaustion and hurt take him. The last thing he's aware of is arms around him, picking him up and holding him to a warm, broad chest.

—

Pete wakes in an unfamiliar place for the second time in a row, and that's really starting to get old- except he slowly realizes that he's in a bed.

It's not his bed, but it's a much nicer place to be than taped to a chair, so at least his life is on the ups.

He groans a little, reaching up to drag a hand down his face, trying to bring himself to full wakefulness.

There's a sudden noise from his left, a scraping against wood, and by the time he manages to pry his eyes open, it's to the sight of Tony- no, Tom - leaning over him. "Pete?" he asks, his voice softer than Pete thinks he's ever heard it.

"Where- where'm I?" Pete asks groggily.

Tom looks almost sheepish for a moment. "Somewhere safe," he says after a heartbeat. "My place," he adds.

"What…?" Pete asks, eyes widening a little as he lurches upright.

Tom catches him before he headbutts him on accident. "I needed to make sure it was just a truth serum they hit you with. There was a mild poison, too, so it's a good thing-"

"What's a mild poison?" Pete asks, affronted.

"One that didn't kill you," Tom answers drily.

"Good to know I'm not dead," Pete says. He glances down at himself, realizing suddenly that he's shirtless. "What, you took me to bed and undressed me and I wasn't even awake for the fun part?" he pouts.

"Had to make sure your ribs weren't broken," Tom sighs, rolling his eyes at him.

"You felt me up and I missed it?" Pete whines.

Tom raises an eyebrow at him. "I can do it again if it's that important to you."

Pete realizes, suddenly, what he's been implying, and he swallows hard. "Uh, I mean-"

Tom watches him with something that looks like amusement. "Pete. You're in my bed. It's fine."

"It is? I…I am?" he asks, trying to figure out which question is more important.

"I wasn't about to put you on my couch," Tom huffs.

"You could have," Pete frowns. There's puzzle pieces here that he's afraid to put together, because he's afraid to get his hopes up. "Why didn't you?"

"They hurt you to get at me," Tom replies, his jaw tight. "Rest assured, this doesn't- this doesn't have to mean anything. You're not bound up in an arranged marriage just because you woke up in my bed. Trust me, I'd know."

"What?" Pete blinks. His head's spinning, trying to catch up with all the pieces, to understand. "Oh, fuck, are you married?" he startles, suddenly horribly guilty. Has he been daydreaming about a taken man?

"No," Tom snorts. "Someone tried to arrange a marriage for me. That was the last time they meddled in my life."

"Oh. Uh. Good for you," Pete decides with a nod.

Tom laughs, a warm, almost carefree sound, and Pete finds himself entranced. It's a sound he could get used to - a sound he wants to get used to. "Thank you," Tom says, with a little smile curling at the corner of his lips.

It occurs to Pete that this is the first time he's seeing Tom in a capacity beyond their usual customer-owner dynamic, and- he might not get another chance. Before he can let common sense and propriety win out, he snags a hand in Tom's shirt and drags him in, kissing him. A little too hard, a little too desperate, and Pete braces himself to be pushed away, to be rejected.

Tom doesn't do either of those things. Tom kisses him back, carding a hand through his hair and curling a fist in it at the base of his skull, holding him there as he kisses him, as he bullies his way into Pete's mouth. Pete moans, melting at the heat of it, the tug of Tom's hand in his hair. Something twinges in his cheek though, and he winces.

An instant later, Tom's pulled away, and Pete makes a low, wordless sound of distress. Tom doesn't go far, searching his face, though Pete isn't sure what exactly he's looking for. Regret? Pain? Both? "Think that poison might still be in your system," Tom says, clearing his throat as he pulls back.

"What-?" Pete asks, keeping his grip in Tom's shirt, not letting him go far. "No-"

"Prove it. Lie to me," Tom demands.

"My name's Tony," Pete says, with full confidence.

Tom snorts, and then laughs at him again. "Okay, fine. I'm sure you've still got some in you, but clearly you can fight it off if you want to."

"Been wanting to do that to you for weeks," Pete admits, with a dopey grin.

"You- you have?" Tom stares.

"Just figured it would be rude to hit on you while you were on the clock," Pete admits. "But you're not on the clock now," he adds, with a salacious grin.

"I- Pete, I own the place. I could have kicked you out if you were making me uncomfortable," Tom points out, flabbergasted.

Pete shrugs. "But then who would you have to eat all your delicious meals?"

Tom's expression softens a little, and he hums. "That's right. So you'd better rest up so you can have dinner with me on Monday."

"You asking me out on a date, Tom?" Pete asks, delighted.

Tom huffs, apparently realizing a moment too late how that sounded. But he doesn't balk or back down. "That depends. You saying yes?"

"Yes," Pete decides, beaming. He drags Tom back in for another kiss, lighter this time, careful not to hurt himself.

"You should rest," Tom admonishes, frowning into his lips, though he clearly doesn't feel strongly enough about it to not kiss him.

"I know how you can make sure that happens," Pete offers, grinning.

"How's that," Tom raises an eyebrow, clearly humoring him.

Pete twists his grip, dragging Tom in the rest of the way, right into the bed with him. "Keep me here," he says.

"Audacious," Tom comments, but Pete can hear the smile in his voice. "I suppose needs must."

Pete snorts, but he doesn't want to risk chasing Tom off, not when the man's shifting to pull the covers aside and settling in behind him.

"Sleep, Pete. You're safe here," Tom murmurs. "They can't hurt you again."

Somehow, Pete believes him. He lets himself fall asleep in his arms, and can't help but think that he's glad it all unraveled like this.

—