Work Text:
Not for the first time, certainly not for the hundredth even, Tom Kazansky is reminded, ass propped up on the bathroom counter, a grimace on his face, that he loves his husband very much. If he's the one reminding himself, it hardly matters.
Pete is nestled between his legs, leaning up but not quite on his tiptoes and smearing cold paste from the Dollar General Halloween pallet that's been collecting dust under their sink for what has to be years on his face. Pete's only saving grace, Tom thinks, is that the way he pokes his tongue out between his teeth in fierce concentration is far too cute. His husband being cute has saved him too many times as it is, and Tom believes, from the way that Pete is also fighting a smirk, that the other man knows it.
"Is this really necessary?" Tom is sure he's asked the question already before he'd allowed himself to be bullied onto the bathroom counter, even at the protest of his back. Pete steps away only long enough to grab a fresh q-tip and dig it into a sixth, and as far as Tom knows, final color.
"Oh yes, very, very necessary, Admiral." Pete is teasing him, and Tom opens his mouth to snipe back, but Pete's free hand comes up to stop his jaw. "No talking while I'm working, honey." Tom rolls his eyes as hard as he can instead and lets the other man work, swiping the color onto his cheek as carefully as he'd done with all the others.
It only takes a minute before Pete seems satisfied, and when he sets the makeshift paintbrush in his hand down, he's beaming up at Tom.
Tom leans down to capture that smile against his mouth, only for Pete to stop him again.
"You'll ruin it, Ice." Tom feels himself scowl, and Pete is far too amused with himself for Tom's liking.
"Fine," Tom huffs.
Pete cleans up his mess, throwing away the little plastic tool they'd already used and the soiled q-tips as well. When he reaches to close the smeared lid of the makeup, Tom holds out a hand to stop him as he slides off the counter. Pete meets his eyes, a little confused, and Tom can't help himself, old habits and all, from smirking.
Without any warning, he gets his hands around his husband and lifts. His lower back protests greatly (years of bodily conditioning can only do so much to postpone the hands of time), but Tom sees his choice through and turns them so that Pete is now sitting on the counter, feet barely brushing the ground.
"What are you doing, Ice?" Pete's question is caught on the end of a breathless laugh, clearly finding Tom's antics delightful. Tom resists the urge, once again, to lean forward and kiss him; instead, he reaches for a clean q-tip and raises an eyebrow at the other man.
"Returning the favor," He swipes a glob of pink onto the cotton and smiles as Pete huffs and tries to get his face to relax. Tom is just thankful his own art project only requires three colors.
It takes Tom considerably less time than it had taken Pete, and when he's done, he has half a mind to throw away the cheap palette so it can never be unearthed again. Instead, Tom closes the lid and returns it to the graveyard of other misfit things beneath the sink. Pete has already hopped down from the sink and has turned around to inspect Tom's handy work once Tom is upright. Unable to help himself, Tom boxes his husband in with his arms and leans his clean cheek onto Pete's shoulder, looking at the two of them in the mirror.
It's clear that Pete had tried for a neater job than Tom had, the lines of his flag almost perfectly straight, only obscured by how some of the cakey color paste had clumped up and refused to be flattened. It would have been more of a struggle to try and even them out, so Pete had left them. The final product still looks better than the lopsided stack of pink, purple, and blue Tom had managed. Pete is smiling regardless, beaming even, and Tom can't help but trace, with his eyes, the deep laugh lines around his partner's mouth, the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes, and the softness of his cheeks and neck. Then Tom looks at himself, hair (thankfully still thick) now a shock of silvery grey and the furrows of his brow more heavy set with age.
"We're old," he comments, but there's no disdain, no indignation. Tom is actually… he's ridiculously happy. His chest feels tight with the emotion.
They are old, but more importantly than that, they're here, in a house they own under both their names, matching wedding bands now clinking against each other as Tom tangles their fingers on top of the counter, together regardless of the hardships they'd faced, after all these years.
"Still a couple of knock-outs," Pete offers, his smile sliding into a lascivious grin. Tom shakes his head in exasperated disbelief but lets Pete sink heavily back against him. They stay like that for a minute, relaxing into a learned kind of peace.
"I love you," Tom can't help but whisper against the side of Pete's head, pressing a kiss on the shorters hair. Pete shifts enough to turn in Tom's arms and looks up into his eyes. Tom knows that look. He knows the easy way Pete slips his fingers into the belt loops of Tom's jeans and tries to drag him forward. It is as familiar as the way the other man drinks his coffee.
It makes Tom laugh.
"What happened to not messing up our makeup, dear?" He wants the kiss Pete is leveraging for just as much as Pete does, but it's more amusing to make his husband work for it.
Pete is immediately caught between scowling and pouting and yanks a bit on Tom to get him to cooperate. He's going to; Tom's going to lean down and kiss the slight frown off Pete's face and smear their flags so much that they'll have matching prints when he pulls away, but before he can, the doorbell rings.
"Ah," Tom breathes out, disappointed but still light-hearted as Pete groans in frustration, "duty calls." Pete nods, obviously reluctant, and the two make their way to the door.
Who is on the other side is no surprise, but Tom can't help the delighted laugh that bubbles up once they've both been revealed.
He'd thought Pete's idea of the face paint had been a little over the top, but Bradley and Jake, standing practically glued to the hip, are a sight to be seen. Like he and Pete, they're in matching outfits, down to the sneakers, but instead of just wearing white shirts as he and Pete had gone for, the two younger men had clearly outsourced for theirs.
The base of their tops is black and cotton. In the middle, bisected by their bodies and meant to match up, is the silhouette of an F-14. The inside is done in the pattern of the rainbow flag matching the one on Tom's face. Right above the picture is text, also cut in half. On Bradley's shirt is 'WING,' and following across to Jakes, Tom finishes reading 'MAN.'
The other men are also smiling, and Tom wants to stay on the porch, chuckling for the next little while, but they are on a schedule. Based on Bradley's recon, parking gets hellish past 10 am.
"Looking good, Mav," Jake says as Tom locks up the house, Pete moving to join him and Bradley as they head for Tom's escalade. "Do it yourself?" His tone is ribbing, and even though Pete is facing away from him, Tom can feel the smirk crawling onto his husband's face.
"What? Not impressed with Iceman's handy work?" Tom watches in amusement as Jake's spine goes straight so fast it looks like it hurts. He turns a sheepish smile to Tom, and it's a fight not to break character. As it is, Tom's worked his expression into something flat and challenging. It's endlessly fun to watch Jake sweat.
"You did a great job, Admiral. It's got uh… character." Tom can't hold it together after that and breaks into a fit of deep laughter, stepping forward to reach their small group and slapping the nervous pilot on the shoulder, good-natured.
"We're not at work, Jake. Just call me Ice." Jake relaxes at that, and when Tom circles the front of the car to get to the driver's seat, he sees Bradley check Jake's hip before pressing a kiss messily to his cheek. They're both grinning; heads ducked together as Bradley teases him. Then Tom catches Pete's gaze from over the roof, and he's looking at Tom with the same bright life he'd had the first time they'd locked eyes across the Top Gun classroom. Tom beams back.
They're old, and this happiness? This pride? They've earned it.
