Chapter Text
It's Tom that makes them all wait. It's a brisk walk down the beach, just three rounds of the national anthem that Tom hums to himself with Ice at his heels, held tight within their bond, in lockstep to where they know Pete and Maverick will be waiting. Tom waits still, fists clenched, behind Pete, blood thrumming in his veins, singing with fury he couldn't tamp down in the pack sense if he tried.
Pete's on his back, on his jacket a little, the rest of his body hugged by the sand. Damn fool Tom thinks, condemned to get sand in crevices he can never fully get out. Mav pushes an image at the four of them. Pete shaking his head, no-his body, like the wolves when they get wet— sand flying. No problem, see. Mav's head doesn't move from Pete's chest, eyes wide open, patient as pie. The only thing that betrays her calm is the propeller swish of her tail.
Tom holds himself apart for a beat. Maybe two.
"You motherfucker—" he bites out, losing control for just that one second.
Pete sighs and doesn't even bother opening his eyes. His hands rub at Mav's big ears.
"There's no point, man," Pete says.
Happy fucking Pete Mitchell. Can't ever get under his skin.
"You're not actually one of them, Mitchell," Tom snaps.
Pete opens his eyes, then. Looks up at Tom, guileless. "I don't know..." he says before taking a deep breath and sending a wave, a crushing fucking wave of feeling—the frantic beat of his heart, his sweaty palms, every inch of will it was taking it not to move while ignoring The Wanting. The game Maverick wants to play.
It surprises Tom, is the thing. That Pete could have a tight a hold on Maverick as he does on Ice. It was one thing to read to read in a manual, to know in the regs that the brothers of bitches were the same, really, as any of the other brothers in the wolfthreat. The entire cornerstone of the whole project. The Old Ways everyone grew up reading about. But hard to find anyone that really bought into it in the 80s.
You learned in basic that The Old Ways were at best bedtime stories they spoon fed you to keep you in line and, at worst, a handbook the Brass threw at you when you or your brother stepped outside of that line.
What the fuck did Tom know about having a sister other than his regularly scheduled, government-mandated Fuck. To make it worse, Pete's fucking sister, like all alphas, was the bitch from hell. From the same cursed fucked lineage that made Duke Mitchell and his brother, Ghost, a black spot in the service.
"If you— " Tom sputters, "if you can— why don't you get your sister under control before you get us fucking Court Marshalled, you asshole? Do you really like it that much you—"
Even Ice doesn't see it coming. The preternatural stillness of Maverick and Pete in the pack sense makes them the worst pair to work with. God only knows how Nick and Goose make it happen. But, that stillness that makes Pete think he's above something so simple as the pack, as the fucking wolfthreat, as the goddamn United States Navy—makes him overconfident. With occasional good reason. Tom is on the ground looking up at the hazy slate gray of the dusky sky before he even registers what happened. The switch flipped like the contrast from Dress Blues to Dress Whites. Mav's hackles are up, with a low growl in her throat. Ice is belly up before Tom can tell him to have some goddam pride above chasing tail. On top of that Tom's jaw is radiating pain up to his temple—a migraine in the making. Because Pete was only ever going to be able to get one in but goddamn did the fucker make it count.
"Say one more word about my sister you son of a bitch," Pete grinds out, panting with the effort.
Tom rubs his jaw. How the fuck am I going to explain this in class tomorrow? At the fucking hops. Christ.
"If you want to fucking hide because you're afraid that's your fucking problem, Kazansky. I'm not in the business of packing my balls away and neither is Mav and neither is fucking Ice."
And Tom can sense from Ice something that is not quite disapproval. Ice is his brother before all but does think whatever human game Tom is playing with Pete better stop soon. Because Mav is waiting. Has been waiting.
Who's side are you on anyway? Tom asks.
Ice flops over and pushes brother, their bond. Ice so sharp it feels like brain freeze, like the pain before the pressure release. Patience. The scent name he gave to Tom that he carries for himself. As deep as the blood in their bones. Then Ice sends Tom something like play. A shrug if he could do that. Mav's heat. Like it's simple and isn't that the problem?