Chapter Text
Pete lands face first in the puddle, eye closing on reflex even as he turns his head to keep his bleeding lip away from the muddy water. "Fucking disgrace!" the guy standing above him growls as his boot connects with Pete's leg.
Shouldn't have worn the jacket, he thinks even as he desperately curls up into the only thing that can shield him. He knew he shouldn't have worn his dad's jacket, but today's been a cold day and he just wanted to buy Nick something for dinner.
The next kick goes for his stomach but he catches it with his arm. "You proud of your daddy, huh? Think you can just walk around like that? You proud of that fuckin' traitor, Mitchell?"
Pete coughs. “My dad wasn’t a traitor!” He knows better than to shout that too, but he’s too stubborn not to, even with the boot to the gut that it gets him.
“Course you’d say that,” the guy spits out. “You gonna turn out just like him, huh? I should-”
“Hey!” A new voice, sharp, makes his attacker pause and turn around, and Pete rushes to get out of the mud. Even if this stranger ultimately decides to jump him too, he just needs a bit of leverage, just needs to get up against the wall and stay up this time, dodge the next hit and run-
“Where do you think you’re going, traitor?”
No dice. The asshole notices him trying to stand up and shoves him into the wall he was bracing on. His leg gives out and Pete goes right back down to the ground, pain sparking up behind his eyelids.
“Jones!” There’s the sharp voice again. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Just showin’ this bastard how it works around here.”
“Funny that.” The voice comes close enough that Pete can hear him click his tongue and he forces his eyes open to look at him. The stranger is tall and thin, a grocery bag hanging off one of the hands folded over his chest and though he’s scowling in anger, he doesn’t look like he’s about to set it down to throw a punch.
It’s not exactly the best option, but Pete is more than willing to take anything he can get.
“I don’t remember dad telling me any stories about midshipmen beating up kids.”
“C’mon, Kazansky.” Jones laughs, but there’s a reassuring hint of nerves in his voice now. “I’m sure your dad told you plenty of stories about Mitchell. Can’t say the fucker doesn’t deserve it.”
“Surprisingly enough, the admiral isn’t one for gossip, no.” Kazansky sneers and though he seems to be on Pete’s side for now, or no one’s side at least, cold terror washes over him. What’s the chance that an admiral’s kid of all people is gonna be nice to him? Especially with a smirk like that.
“Well, then let me enlighten you-”
“But I do think he would care if the gossip involved an assault change. So why don’t you spare him the paperwork and go away?”
Finally, Jones stops smiling. Glancing between Pete and Kazansky, he scowls instead. “You know what, Kazansky?”
“What?” The admiral’s kid blinks at him, and the innocent look would almost work if it wasn’t for that knowing smile. “You want to tack on insulting a fellow student? His son? Gotta say, that’s one hell of a life decision to make.”
“I-”
Kazansky lifts an unimpressed eyebrow.
Jones huffs and backs off, but the relief of him walking away is too short lived when Kazansky turns that smirk on Pete. “Hey,” his voice takes on a deceptively soft tone and Pete scrambles to his feet again, hands sliding along the wall looking for some kind of a handhold.
“Hey, no, don’t get up.” Suddenly Kazansky is reaching for him and Pete has to give up his grip to grab his wrist and stop him. He has to lean on the wall to stay standing, but that only means he has more leverage to push the guy away.
Not again, he grits his teeth desperately. He’s not getting caught off guard ever again.
“Whoa, slow down!” Kazansky’s eyes widen and he lifts his hands palms up, the grocery bag rattling as he takes a step back that Pete is pretty sure he didn’t force him into. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Fuck off, admiral’s bast-” The insult dies on his tongue as a cough overtakes him, making him double over, and suddenly Kazansky’s hands are actually touching him, pressing him against the wall and then grabbing his arms to slow down his inevitable descend.
Pete still curses when he hits the ground again, but it’s probably not understandable over the damn coughing, over the blood he spits out.
“Shit,” Kazansky mutters and then his groceries are on the ground, in the mud, and his knees join them and he forces Pete to straighten up against the wall with hands on his chest, fingers prodding at the bones. “C’mon, kid,” he urges. “What hurts? Did he break a rib?”
Pete shakes his head insistently and tries to push his hands away again, but his weak touch is more of a caress that doesn’t even budge Kazansky. A frustrated noise slips out of him and it rattles in his throat, aches in his chest.
Fuck, something might actually be broken. He doesn’t quite manage to hold back a sob at the realization, and the way Kazansky shushes him makes him sound awfully similar to Nick.
Fuck, Nick’s gonna freak out.
“Nice jacket,” Kazansky says, nodding to the patches as he puts pressure on Pete’s chest. “Glad this asshole wasn’t your first experience with the Navy. We’re not all like him, I promise.” He smiles and Pete wants to scoff, but he can’t quite find the breath for it.
“Are from my experience,” he grumbles at least.
Kazansky has the decency to wince. “Well, I’m sorry about that. Is it something to do with your dad or whatever Jones said? Is that his jacket?”
“What are you doing?” Pete frowns. He doesn’t get it, why Kazansky's saying all that, speaking in a voice so soft when it sounded so sharp just moments ago, why he’s doing any of this at all.
“Trying to have a friendly conversation while I check you over so you don’t freak out or pass out.” Kazansky shrugs as he nudges at his rib, making Pete hiss before he pulls his hands away. “I don’t think it’s broken, by the way, but definitely bruised.”
This time, Pete does manage to scoff. “That’s a friendly conversation to you?”
Kazansky makes a face he can’t decipher and rocks up to his feet. “Family not a good topic? I get that, I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t sound like you get it.”
Kazansky shrugs and Pete doesn’t know him, but he’d say it looks forced. “Well, whatever works, right? C’mon, you feel ready to stand up?” He offers out his hand and Pete’s not above being too prideful to take it, but from his previous attempts, he knows he won’t be able to get up without the help.
Kazansky does most of the work pulling him up, and then quickly grabs him under the arm before he can fall over again. He can’t help but hiss when Kazansky’s hand presses against what is definitely a bruised rib, but the touch quickly disappears, Kazansky trying to find a gentler way to hold him while he picks up his groceries with the other hand.
Taking a careful step forward while easily holding half of Pete’s weight, he adjusts his grip once again and nods to himself. “Okay. Got anywhere I can take you?”
“Not the hospital,” Pete blurts out quickly. Anything but the hospital.
Kazansky chuckles, but he thankfully doesn’t argue about it. “I don’t think you need the hospital. But we need to clean up that lip and ice those ribs.”
“I’ve got…” Pete hesitates, but just barely, because he’s so tired and there’s really only one place where he wants to be right now. “Uhm, Nick should be home already,” he mumbles. God, what time is it? It was around four the last time he checked, way before the first punch was thrown.
“Is that Nick Bradshaw, by any chance?” Kazansky guesses as he steps out to finally get Pete out of the alley. “He’s been talking about his little brother visiting, is that you?”
Little brother. Pete can’t help but smile as he nods. He’s had a lot of brothers, big and little, but none who said the word and meant it like Nick does. “You know Nick?”
“Yeah.” Kazansky smiles. “C’mon then, let’s get you to Mother Goose.”
The walk to Kazansky’s car, sitting in the middle of the store’s parking lot, takes a lot out of Pete. When Kazansky helps him into the shotgun seat and buckles him in, he feels about ready to close his eyes and go to sleep. He only makes himself stay awake because Nick would freak out so much if Kazansky delivered him passed out, on top of the bloody mess he is.
Seriously, he caught himself in the side view mirror and that busted lip looks a lot worse than it feels.
Still, despite his best efforts, he doesn’t remember getting from the parking lot to Nick’s place. He only knows that it’s dark now, street lamps painting everything yellow, and one of Kazansky’s hands is on his waist, keeping him upright, while the other is ringing the doorbell.
It’s a familiar sound, familiar melody, the quiet squeaking of the hinges when Nick opens the door. “Pete! Thank God, I was getting-” The relief that freezes on his face when he realizes what state Pete is in is also familiar. “Tom? What the hell happened?”
Tom. That must be Kazansky’s first name. Makes sense that he has one.
He staggers when Tom moves forward with him and two pairs of hands quickly catch him, blissfully missing his ribs, going on his shoulders and hips instead.
“Kid was getting beat up behind the store,” Tom explains, a little out of breath as he helps transfer Pete into Nick’s arms.
“Was my fault. Wore my jacket,” he mumbles, the last of his strength finally leaving him, because he knows Nick has no problem carrying him to the kitchen chair. “Adm’ral stepped in.”
Nick guides him to lean back, lifting an eyebrow as he glances back at Tom. “Admiral?”
Tom shrugs. “Pulled the dad card to make the guy leave. Jones is stupid enough for it to work.”
“At least the asshole’s good for something,” Nick mutters, his attention returning to Pete, gentle fingers tilting his head to look at his lip from a better angle. “Jones? You sure it was him?”
“Absolutely. I threatened him with a charge, but I think I’ll leave him to you.” There’s that firm voice again. Pete was starting to wonder if he dreamt it up. “Kid’s got a bruised rib. Where’s your first aid kit?”
“In the bathroom. Thanks, Tom.”
Pete can only hear Tom walk away, because at the mention of his ribs, Nick drops down in front of him and takes up his whole field of vision, quick hands pulling up his tee to get at his chest. Nick’s fingers brush over a very sensitive spot, a bruise slowly coloring out, and Pete winces.
Nick clicks his tongue. “What were you even doing, going out without me?”
“Wanted to buy dinner,” Pete mumbles. “So you wouldn’t have to cook.”
“You didn’t have to, Pete.” Nick gives him a gentle smile, ruffling his hair. “I was just gonna order pizza.”
Oh. He really didn’t have to then.
Tom comes back with the first aid kit quickly, leaves it on the table and, under Nick’s instructions, also brings a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. With a quick thanks, Nick helps Pete hold it against his chest and gets to cleaning his lip.
Tom hovers for a moment, teeth dragging over his bottom lip, before he speaks. “Uhm, you think you’ve got it from here, Nick? I should probably get back to Ron, can’t let him starve.”
“Or worry himself to death.” Nick smiles up at him easily. “Yeah, I’ve got it, Tom. Thank you, again.”
“Anytime, Mother Goose.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now go, one freaked out big brother’s more than enough for the night.”