Chapter Text
The weather in D.C sucks. Pete decides. It’s almost always way too fucking cold in this place. He steps into their far too large of a closet. Sure Tom now wore almost exclusively suits, and yes they both had multiple variations of their Navy uniforms, but good god- their closet is the size of one of his bedrooms growing up. and he shared those (often with more than just one kid). Almost immediately he finds the sweatshirt he wants. Tom’s Naval Academy sweater. Old, but still in good condition somehow. Pete manages to get it on without anything hurting too bad. He’s smoothing it out when something shiny reflects and demands his attention. His eyes linger. He can’t help it. It’s not even a conscious choice- he simply can’t tear his eyes away. The unassuming gray metal of the gun safe stares back at him. Suddenly, all that’s exist in the world is him, and the safe. Even his own pounding heart beat fades from his perception.
This is bad. He knows. He knows. He knows. And yet… why was it so tempting. It shouldn’t be. It’s bad that it is. Pete knows that he hasn’t been in the best of health, mentally or physically, but hadn’t realized it was quite this bad. It’s stupid that it is. They’ve only been in Washington for just shy of seven months- not even a year. He’s been on deployments that’ve lasted longer than this, and those involved life and death- grueling work- not this. Not being able to spend entire days at home doing nothing, seeing his husband everyday.
He knows all of this. It doesn’t change the fact that the safe is right there, and he knows the code. He knows the Glock .22 that lays inside with two pre-loaded clips and a half empty box of ammo.
It would be so easy. But Tom. And Bradley. Their friends, and their family. “Hey Siri.” He chokes out, pushing forward with the sudden courage that fills him before it can flee. “Text Ice- I need you to come home.”
He hears Siri’s Australian accent respond the affirmative from the watch on his wrist. For once he’s truly grateful for the annoying thing. It takes only a minute or two; though it feels like an eternity- but then the upbeat chorus of Ice Ice Baby fills the room. It plays, and plays, but god, he can’t bring himself to answer. It’s just- it’s too much. The music cuts off sharply, and then there’s a ding. And another. And then the music fills the room- he needs to get out of this room. And yet- and yet his foot only inches forward. Closer to the safe. It doesn’t even feel like it’s him that’s doing it.
Like he’s just a spectator as his shaking hand types in the code for the safe. 2011. Tom was usually always so careful with his passwords and pins- flat out refused to use anything that was sentimental. The safe is the exception. It clicks open, and it feels like it echos even though he knows it doesn’t. (Far too many clothes in their closet. his mind supplies.)
The handle of the pistol is coarse, and it’s a heavy weight in his palm. The sailor in him checks the magazine on reflex- full. As expected. The clip locks in place, and then he’s left there. Standing in their walk-in closet, watch singing that same damn song, and with their pistol in his hand with the safety off.
Would it really matter? He can’t help but wonder, despite his best attempts to block it out. Bradley had lived long enough without him- the kid knows how to. He’d be alright; and their friends would be too. After all, he isn’t the first they’ve lost. And Ice…Ice could chase his career without restraint or worry.
Maybe it would be best if he does go through with it.
The thought settles like an anchor in his mind; he can’t move past it. It’s not even Ice’s fault he feels like this. Pete doesn’t even know what he wants- and he doesn’t know how to make it better or easier. Most days he feels like the only thing he knows how to do is complain.
His grip tightens on the pistol.
Honestly, Pete, distantly, thought his heart ought to be racing. Though it seemed rather the opposite. The beats were slow and steady, and to be entirely truthful, he feels exhausted. When did he get so tired? His steps are sluggish- clumsy even, as he makes the short, but overwhelmingly long journey out of their closet, and to the sitting area in their bedroom. Pete all but collapses into the seat with a groan- the pain is suddenly all too much to bear. His chest aches, his head hurts and it all strikes with a vengeance. It comes so sudden, that he forgets about the pistol in his hand, and drops it as he moves to cradle his head in his hands.
The pulsing of his head is overwhelming- it’s too much. He can’t take this. He can’t do this. He’s in too much pain. He’s too tired. Rest. He begs of the world. His teeth dig into his lip as he tries to muffle his pain. Even his heartbeat seems so loud to his sensitive senses. It’s like thunder in his ears- wait no. It’s not thunder. Not even his heartbeat- no it’s a voice. Yelling. It’s Tom’s voice yelling in a way that he hasn’t heard since before he was diagnosed with cancer. He shouldn’t be yelling. Pete thinks automatically. It’ll aggravate his throat- he’ll be in pain tomorrow- he’ll have to remember to make him a tea.
“MAVERICK!” His husband yells again, and their bedroom door damn near flies off the hinges. Tom steps in, and Pete thinks he sees relief on his face, but then he pales, and his expression closes off. …but why? He wonders, and follows his gaze, lower, and then he sees what he had forgotten about- the pistol.
Fuck. What is he supposed to say? How can he explain? He has to come up with someth-
He can hear Tom’s breath catch. But he speaks regardless. “Is it loaded?”
Pete blinks. He expected demands for answers, explanations, not that. It takes a moment before he remembers that he’s meant to respond; and a moment longer for him to remember how to move his lips. “Yes.” He rasps.
“Alright.” Ice keeps his voice level. “I’m going to pick it up, okay?”
Pete swallows. “I-I can get it.” He is right there, after all.
“No.” His husband tells him in perhaps the sharpest tone he’s ever heard from him. “No.” Tom repeats, just as firmly. “Do not touch it.”
It stings, but he gives a small, sullen nod. Only then does his husband move from the doorway. It feels ridiculous to be sitting there, such a mess, and making him come home over nothing. To sit there and make Tom come all the way across the room to pick up what is right beside him.
All the same, Pete watches Ice kneel down and pick up the Glock. Once it’s in his hand, he watches him flick on the safety, and then unload the gun. “I’m going to put this back up.” Tom tells him. His blue eyes seem particularly icey. “Don’t move, okay?”
He doesn’t respond at first- it’s mostly a rhetorical question anyhow. But Tom doesn’t move, just stares at him. “Okay.” He whispers finally. To himself, he can admit, he’s not even sure if he can move. His body feels limp- lifeless.
Pete can’t help his startle whenever something bumps against his legs. Rapidly blinking, his gaze focuses on Tom sitting on the coffee table just before him. Their knees brush and Tom leans forward. “Have you taken anything you shouldn’t have?”
It takes a moment for the words to process, but then he shakes his head. The wince that follows afterwards is particularly painful. It’s the truth, but even so, Tom’s frown only deepens. “Have you taken any of your medication today?”
“I…” He tries to think back, but god, it doesn’t feel like his brain is working. It’s like trying to navigate a maze in a thick fog. “I don’t think so.”
Tom’s voice is a little warmer, but still solidly level. “That’s okay. I’ll check. Let’s get you into the bed and I’ll bring you your medicine.”
Pete swallows, but follows his husband’s leading hands, and rises. He’s unsteady from the get go, but Tom takes most of his weight with an arm over his shoulder and hand gripping his waist. It’s only a couple steps for them to hobble to the bed, but it is a taxing process. By the time he’s in their bed, it feels like there’s nothing left in him. It’s a miracle that his eyes are even open. They must not be open the entire time, for in between blinks, Tom disappears, and reappears with a cup of water and a handful of pills. Ice helps sit him up, and sits on the edge of the bed just behind him. A comforting warmth against his back as he leans against him and puts the pills in his mouth.
Then, he reaches and takes the water from him. he only has it for a few seconds before Tom’s hand is right up against his again, and steadies the cup from his trembling. Pete hadn’t know he was shaking. But even with Tom’s stabling, it’s still a struggle to down enough water to force the pills down.
Weakly, he pushes the cup and Tom’s hand away once he’s done with the water. Behind him, his husband shifts, and it feels like he’s about to get up. “Please.” He begs, and Tom stills immediately. “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t” He promises with a warm gust of air against his ear. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” Accompanying his promise, he really does shift this time, but scoots further into the bed, and gently beckons Pete into his arms and against his chest. Something wet touches his face, and he notices a growing damp spot on Tom’s dress shirt. Odd.
Oh. He thinks. Pulling his trembling hand away from his cheeks. He’s crying. How hadn’t he known he was crying?
Despite knowing, and being aware, and now present; he can’t stop. He only buries his face further into his husband as his tears give way to sobs and mumbled apologizes that he’s sure don’t make any sense.
Tom’s grip only tightens around him, and Pete is sure he’s saying something but between his sobs and his head, he can’t make out a single sound. Gives up on even trying to. He doesn’t really matter. The only thing that matters is that Tom is there, and everything will be alright now.