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One.
Tom regrets even saying anything.
His mother is fussing over him way too much. Brushing his hair so hard she pulls some out, bringing him home new dresses to try on, talking a bit too much about sending him to finishing school.
“We can’t have you playing with the boys, Angie. That’s not what girls do.”
So here he was.
His weeks turned into a routine round of torture that only an eight-year-old could partially block out. Sunday, he woke up an hour earlier than everyone else so his mother could wash his hair her way. Then, she would hand him a new dress that she bought. She had to approve of his looks before he could go to mass with the rest of the family.
His outfits for school were picked out each day. Tom had to get her approval before walking to the bus stop.
It became monotonous, and gone were the loving touches of a mother. No more soft hands wiping tears from his cheeks or gently holding his hand while they walked through the shops in town.
Instead, those touches were replaced with nails in his scalp and hands tightening the strings on dresses he hated wearing. Because it wasn’t Tom Kazansky looking back at him in the mirror, but it was Angela Kazansky.
He fought the urge to flinch when his mother’s hand came to his head, fearing tight braids or a rough pass of the brush. He never flinched in the years she treated him like that, but he wanted to so badly. Because her touch came with pain and too much self-loathing for any child to have.
Two.
“Hey, Tom.”
Tom looked up from his textbook, startled. No one went out of their way to talk to him. He knew some people and would hang out with them outside of school on occasion, but only if he was invited.
He chose to keep to himself, that’s the only way to assure he’s safe.
The girl in front of him was his chemistry partner from his junior year. She was nice, curly dark-blonde hair and round glasses framing her face. She wasn’t the most popular girl in their class, but Tom liked her well enough.
“Hey, Maeve.”
“Hi! I was just, um,” she paused, nervously fiddling with the hair behind her ears. Tom fidgeted with his pencil, “there’s a new movie coming out tonight. Based off a TV show? Star Trek?” Tom nodded, he’s heard kids in the hallways talking about it, “I was wondering if you wanted to see it with me?”
And oh, that was unexpected, “Uhm-”
“You don’t have to!” She rushed, “But I’d like for you to come.”
Tom smiled, “Okay.”
They agreed to meet at the theatre downtown, both being equal walking distances away from it in opposite directions. Tom paid for the tickets and the snacks, and they sat down in the middle of the theatre. The place was reasonably packed, and Tom felt sweat pool in his palms as the lights dimmed.
Sometimes, he would reach into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brush hands with Maeve. The touches sent electricity throughout Tom’s entire body, making him shiver and the hairs on his arms raise.
His chest felt impossibly tighter when Maeve linked their hands together halfway through the movie.
At the end, they walked out together hand in hand. Maeve didn’t seem interested in letting go and the poor girl was so nice that Tom didn’t have the heart to force his hand away. His palms were sweaty and he felt like he was going to explode out of his skin. He didn’t even like women. This wasn’t a crush.
He hasn’t been touched like this since he was a kid.
“Did you like it?” She asked. Tom’s brain was mush between his ears,
“Uh- yeah! Yeah, I liked it a lot,” he grinned down at her, “Thanks for inviting me.”
She smiled up at him, “Thanks for coming,” and then she was standing on her toes and she was getting closer and then-
It was quick. A peck. But by the time she pulled away Tom’s mind finally caught up that she kissed him .
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She said, and then she walked away.
His palms were still sweaty. There he stood, under the streetlights of Dallas, standing around like an idiot because a girl was nice to him.
Jesus.
Three.
“Then let me help you.”
Tom stared at Bradshaw dumbstruck. This had to be a sick joke.
But it wasn’t. Because Bradshaw was reaching into his own locker and picking out a clean shirt, throwing it at Tom to put on. He did numbly, wincing at the pain in his ribs and chest.
Bradshaw’s touch was like fire as he led Tom to the bunks on the other side of the base, narrowly avoiding curious glances from other squadrons. He sat him down on one of the beds before reaching into his side table and pulling out a first aid kit.
“You should have left me there,” Tom said, voice raspy and quiet. Bradshaw just opened the first aid kit and pulled out gauze and disinfectant, “You’re risking your career being here with me.”
“You’re a funny guy, Tom,” Bradshaw said, “I’m keeping you around.”
Holding up the disinfectant, Bradshaw’s eyes fell to Tom’s torso, still covered by the loaned shirt. Tom wrapped his arms around himself, feeling exposed. Vulnerable.
“You won’t be able to reach it yourself, man.”
Tom sighed, gingerly pulling off the shirt. The binding bandages were dirty with sweat and blood. His skin ripped open and bruised. Bradshaw winced just looking at it. He reached out a hand to gently take off the soiled bandages, and Tom flinched at the movement, eyes wide.
“Tom.”
“Please don’t.”
And that seemed to break both of them.
Tom couldn’t reach it, Bradshaw (“Nick, please call me Nick.”) was right on that part. Tom took off the bandages himself, Nick looking away as he did. Tom brought his arms around to cover himself, keeping his chest covered but everything else exposed for Nick to see.
He was gentle, spraying disinfectant on the open wounds and gently bandaging anything that was bleeding. He lightly wrapped Tom’s whole ribcage, putting gentle pressure on the cracked ribs to encourage them to heal.
Tears streamed down Tom’s face the whole time. He didn’t make a sound.
Four
“Fucking hell, Tom.”
Tom just spat up more bile, his whole body shaking with the adrenaline crash as the last hour come crashing over him. Maverick yelling at him over the comms. The frightened calls as he loses control. The ejection.
Ice circled over Maverick and Goose for 40 minutes until the Coast Guard found them.
Tom stayed leaning over the toilet in the locker room, Ron right behind him in the stall. Everyone else had cleared out. Or maybe Tom was just blocking them out, he couldn’t be sure.
“I killed him.”
Slider choked at that, “What.”
“I wouldn’t take the shot.” And for what? To spite Maverick?
“The system wouldn’t lock, Tom. You couldn’t have taken the shot.” Ron laid a hand on Tom’s back. He shuddered at the feeling.
Tom gagged as another wave of nausea went through him. Nothing came up. Ron’s hold only got tighter, and Ice felt himself whine and pull away. It was burning. Everything was burning.
“Tom-”
“Please just go.”
“Fucking- Tom. Pull it together. It wasn’t your fault- it wasn’t our fault. Viper is gonna be in here any minute for a debrief.”
Tom rested his head against the toilet bowl, feeling better as the cold porcelain cooled his burning skin. Ron just sighed and walked away, muttering about how he’d meet him in the hallway. Tom tried not to whine at the loss, feeling when the space Slider was previously in was empty. The grounding touch no longer there.
Tom spat up some more, just to get it out of his system.
Five
He and Sarah were cuddled on her couch, and this is the first time in his adult life Tom had ever cuddled someone. Jeopardy was on the TV, and Sarah kept shouting out answers as Tom dozed. They started the night just sitting next to each other, but now, two hours later, Tom was laying on her chest as she lazily stroked his back like a cat.
It should have been embarrassing, but Tom was too exhausted from running a whole Naval base to care about the image he and Sarah were creating at the moment. She was fidgeting with the back of his shirt, and Tom just laid there, well on his way to falling asleep.
He flinched violently when her hands found his hair.
“What- are you okay?”
Tom just sat there, staring at her dumbfounded and wide-eyed.
“Tom.”
Yes, that was his name. He blinked, “Sarah-”
“Come here.” And he melted. Sarah had that effect on him. She would tell him to do something and he’d do it, no questions asked. He loved her. But didn’t love her. He didn’t know what it was.
He laid back down, body tense and ready to flee even though he had no energy to go anywhere. His heart pounded.
“Does it hurt?”
“What?”
“You flinched like it hurt, Tom.” He just sighed.
“I…” He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t just say that his mom used to rip his hair out while brushing it, “It’s just been a while. Since someone touched me there.”
“Oh, honey.”
Her hands found his back again. Then, slowly, they worked their way up to his neck. Then the hair on his neck. They just settled there, putting gentle pressure until Tom felt himself relax, and then they gently started scratching.
Shudders wracked his body as Sarah continued scratching at his scalp. She combed her fingers through his hair, smoothing out any spikes and gently untangling any knots she found. Her attention returned to the TV.
Tom fell asleep on her chest.
One.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
Maverick pulled him closer, and Tom went with it. The weight was lifted off his shoulders, at least partially. He shivered as the AC kicked on, still shirtless. Tom just sighed, relaxing into Maverick’s touch as the younger man wrapped both his arms around him and put Tom’s head under his chin.
He tensed up for a moment but relaxed as Maverick just sat there, holding him. It was odd, almost. All these years apart. All those years regretting leaving Maverick like he did and the other man came back.
(He left again. Left to Iran with his pseudo-son that hates him but doesn’t at the same time. Left when he got shot down and had the entire Navy convinced he was dead for 32 minutes.)
(But he came back every time. And then he stayed. He stayed when Tom was in treatment. Stayed when he was on death’s door. Stayed tonight, after Tom confessed to the 40-year-long lie he’s lived.)
“When was the last time you slept?” Maverick asked. Tom just snorted, because they both knew the answer to that question, and Maverick really shouldn’t be the one asking.
“I don’t know.” He whispered. His voice was shot, it always was by this point in the day.
“Let’s go to bed.”
Tom didn’t protest when Maverick pulled back the covers and forced him to lie down, pulling Tom back against his chest and just holding him. Maverick fell asleep first, and Tom followed shortly after, Maverick’s head resting beside his.