Chapter Text
Peter Mitchell had been in service of the King for his whole life. First, as a lowly stable boy, mercifully recruited off the streets by the then captain of the guard, a man simply known as Viper (and later, to Pete, as Dad). It hadn’t been the most glamorous of childhoods, but he could now recognize how much benefit he reaped from Viper’s tutelage. The defining event of his childhood, however, wasn’t the swordsmanship lessons Viper gave him or learning how to tack a horse properly. No, the definitive moment in then-young Pete’s life was the return of Prince Thomas from schooling abroad.
Pete’s first thought of the man was that he was ethereal. His second thought of him was that he was a pompous jerk. His second impression didn’t improve much over the subsequent years, until the day the castle was attacked. The day Prince Thomas became King Thomas and the day that Pete was similarly brought from stablehand into the ranks of the King’s Guard.
The attack was unexpected and Pete was separated from Viper from the beginning, having been in the rafters of the stable patching a leak in the roof. He stayed put when he heard all the commotion, which was how he witnessed the attempted kidnapping of the prince. Prince Thomas had clearly not gone down without a fight, his usually perfectly kept hair was messy and streaked with blood, and the front of his doublet and hands were coated in a similar red. He was conscious even though he was unarmed, which Pete supposed was a bonus. Pete listened to the invaders talk for a few minutes about the reward they would receive and then decided that he had better do something, so he dropped down from the rafters straight upon the leader, knocking him down and grabbing the sword kicked out of the man’s grasp. His distraction gave Prince Thomas a second to overpower another invader and then they were back to back in the middle of the rest of them. Unfortunately, Pete’s planning ended there, and the Prince was suitably displeased about that.
The fight was messy, but Pete learned a lot that day. Starting with the revelation that though Prince Thomas could be a jerk, he was loyal to those under his care, and though he had many an opportunity to, didn’t leave Pete behind as they fought their way out. Of course, by the end of it, Pete would only be a footnote in history, as it would forever be marked as the day that Prince Thomas ascended to the throne after watching his father’s murder right in front of him.
They became friends, of a sort. For some reason incomprehensible to Pete, the newly minted king kept seeking out his company. Whether it was to thoroughly school him in a practice spar, to debate with him, or, eventually, to teach him how to play chess of all things. Then, the years went on, and the “of a sort” metamorphosed into something definite, a bond that was solid and based on shared history, shared battles. Pete had had few friends in his life, but even he knew what he had with the so-called Ice King was different than a regular friendship. He treasured each and every moment they got together and he had the impression that Tom did the same. Especially as their nights together lengthened, and the chess games turned into drinks afterward, where Pete got to know more of Tom the human being.
He could tell there was something between them, a spark, that connection that didn’t exist in every friendship. Even as inexperienced as he was, he could pick that out. But, for some reason, they never did anything about it. Call it fear, call it respect, whatever it was, they knew it was there but that was as far as anything ever went. Pete rationalized it to himself at night when everyone sensible lay sleeping, he tossed and turned in his bunk, reminding himself that it would never work. Tom was a King, and there were expectations to uphold. Besides, Pete would never shake his street-orphan heritage, no matter how much his reputation as a skilled warrior grew.
Maybe that was why, many years down the line, he agreed to lead the fighting at the front. Tom would have gone himself, but his wife, Sarah, was in ill-health, a casualty of the plague sweeping the lands. There was nobody he trusted more, Tom said, and they would have Nick behind to fill in Pete’s absence and manage as Captain of the Guard. He as good as made it an order, though Pete knew that if he’d put up any sort of defense against it, Tom would have given the assignment to someone else. That was just the way it was.
But, with Nick’s family in mind, his wife and teenage son, Pete chose to accept the orders. He took the nation’s banner, donned his armor, spread eagle wings proudly emblazoned on the front of his breastplate, and marched bravely onwards.
The front was messy. It was dirty, exhausting, demeaning, and with every life that ended on his blade, Pete felt a piece of his soul chip away. It got so far that sometimes he worried if there was even any part of him that was truly Pete left, or if he had just become his moniker personified. The Maverick , for his unique tactics and improvisation mid-battle. Two years in, he decided it was easier if he wasn’t Pete anymore. He couldn’t afford to be. Especially not when Bradley joined him as a squire. Bradley had a good heart, but he was too young, far too young and skittish, for it all when he first joined them. Over the years, under Maverick’s instruction and with the camaraderie the rest of the soldiers afforded him, he mellowed, becoming more sure of himself. He grew into a man that Maverick knew Nick and Carole were proud of, a man that Maverick was proud of as well. He was the natural successor to his time at the front, and Bradley knew it. Luckily, the friends he’d made, Reuben, Jake, and Javy, kept him humble and sure-footed on the ground.
The existence of that network was what allowed Mav to entertain the thought of going back home in good conscience. He’d been away from the castle for too long, not to mention, he was starting to feel the aches in his joints from the wet weather in a way that he’d never noticed before. So, when he went down in battle, breastplate bent out of shape and an enemy spear buried in his side, he agreed to be transported home for recovery. With assurances to Bradley, who’d fought tooth and nail to get to him and get him back to safety, he turned over command into his godson’s care, and set his sights on the castle. For the first time in twelve years, Pete Mitchell would be home.
No matter what his men had to say about it aggravating his wounds, Pete insisted on riding into the castle grounds under his own power. So, he outfitted himself in all of the gear he could bear and held his head high as they passed through the portcullis and into the courtyard. Tom, Nick, and the aging Viper were waiting for them.
Coming to a halt in front of them, Pete swung his leg over his horse to land on the ground, and resolutely ignored how much he staggered into kneeling in front of Tom. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, unbuckling his sword belt and offering it up. “My sword is yours to command.”
“Rise, Captain,” Tom said, and oh, Pete had missed his voice. He had almost forgotten what it sounded like until that moment, and his mind was awash refitting all his memories with the correct intonation now that he had a living example again. “If you are not in too poor of shape from your travels, come with me. I’m assured we have much to discuss.”
“As you say,” Pete assured, with an easy smirk in Nick’s direction. “Captain.”
“Captain,” Nick replied, teasing glint in his eyes.
Tom rolled his eyes fondly and turned with a swish of his cloak to head inside, Pete, Nick, and Viper following. As soon as the heavy main doors of the castle closed behind them, whole demeanors changed. Nick was the first to turn and fuss over Pete, demanding to see his wounds and pulling at Pete’s leather armor when the latter moved too slowly for his liking.
“Nick, stop–” Pete protested, evading his friend’s hands. “I promise I’m fine. I won’t be if you prod at me though, so stop it. I will be okay for now.”
“For now, hm,” Viper mused, and Pete turned to hug his father hello. “I have to say, kid, you gave us quite the scare when the news arrived.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Pete smirked, “But it is nice to know you care–”
“You cheeky snot!” Viper pushed him away, but the affectionate smile on his face gave him away. “We shall keep this brief then, are you agreed, Tom?”
“Of course,” Tom murmured, and Pete turned away from his father and best friend to find the king’s icy eyes locked on him. He had the urge to shiver at the intensity. “Pete being home is primarily for recovery, and so recover he shall. However, if you could give us a quick update on the front, I would appreciate hearing from your perspective.”
“Of course, sire.”
“Excellent. Let us use the maps in the war room.”
Later that night, after he had unpacked his meager belongings, Pete decided the next course of action would be to change the bandage and dressing on his wound. He was in the middle of the task when there was a knock at the door. Supposing it was only Nick, he called out for them to come in and turned back to the wrappings.
“Since when do you need to knock, Nick? And if you wanted updates on Bradley you should have just followed me back here after the meeting.” He clipped off the end of the bandage, tucked it into itself, then turned around.
It was in fact, not Nick standing in his doorway. It was Tom, alone. He was holding something wrapped in cloth, but Pete barely noticed.
“Oh,” Pete said, feeling the tips of his ears heat as he became aware of the weight of Tom’s gaze and his state of undress. “Apologies, your majesty, let me just–” he lunged across the room to grab his discarded shirt, and was halfway through pulling it over his head when he felt unfamiliar hands on his skin. He pulled his head through the hole and met Tom’s intense look with one of incredulity.
“Does it hurt?”
Pete tried his best to focus on the enduring dull pain in his side and less on the cool feeling of Tom’s hands tracing and mapping each scar on Pete’s torso. “It does not…not hurt,” he said, flustered.
Tom’s hands stopped, and he gave Pete an unimpressed look. Unfortunately, though Pete was initially glad that Tom’s hands had stopped, the fact that they were now staying in one place and slowly warming against his skin was almost worse.
Pete huffed, “I have a lot of aches and pains, Tom. Neither of us are the young men we were when we met, and yes, the wound hurts, but it won’t hurt forever.”
Tom hummed. “You’re right,” he mused. “We’re not.”
Pete frowned, but used the moment to pull his shirt the rest of the way down and dislodge Tom’s hands in the process. Now, feeling as though he could breathe properly, he gestured vaguely over Tom’s shoulder to the bed, where the box Tom had been carrying when he arrived had been placed. “A housewarming gift? You shouldn’t have.”
“Ah. It’s a chess set. I thought we could play a game, unless you need to rest?”
Pete grinned, “I’d like that.”
“I hope you’ve been practicing, Pete,” Tom teased. “We wouldn’t want this to be over as soon as it’s begun.”
“Don’t worry, Tom, I’m sure you’ll find that I can put up a fight just as well as I used to.”
“Not sure I would call how you used to play a fight, Pete.”
He gasped, outraged. “How dare you. I know you’re the king and such, Tom, but someone must put you in your place.”
Tom finished setting up the board and spread his arms wide in challenge. “I welcome you to try.”
Pete grinned and made his first move. Tom grinned back, a quicksilver flash of teeth before he was studying the board. Pete’s smile softened as he watched Tom’s eyebrows furrow, the way he tapped at his mouth with a fingertip, all things that were endearingly familiar to Pete. Tom’s eyes flicked up, meeting Pete’s, and he smiled slightly back.
“Your turn, Pete. Need that much of a refresher on the rules, do you?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Oh, silence. I was distracted.”
“Distracted, hmm?” Tom nudged his foot against Pete’s under the table. “Come on, we’ve only just started.”
Pete shook his head with a smile, and turned back to the board. “My apologies, your majesty. I will endeavor to be better in the future.”
“Oh, stop,” Tom sighed. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our rules now too–”
“–No formal titles when it’s just us,” they said in unison, and Pete laughed.
“Don’t worry, Tom. It’s not my memory that’s gone in my old age.”
“Pssh. If you’re old then I must be too, and we can’t have that.”
“Weren’t you the one agreeing with me earlier that we aren’t the young men we used to be?”
“Are you calling your king a liar, Pete?”
“Oh, so now you’re a king–”
To Pete’s surprise, instead of retorting with another snappy comeback, Tom just started laughing. First, it was a chuckle as Pete continued his teasing rant, but then Tom threw his head back, laughing so hard he snorted, and Pete stopped short. He wondered how long it had been since someone made Tom laugh like this, since everything. Since his wife had passed during those hard plague years and his children had grown enough to pursue their own lives and spouses and he was all alone in the castle. For the first time that day, Pete took note of the gray streaking Tom’s hair and the lines around his eyes and mouth. He was sure if Tom looked at him he was no better, with the start of graying at his temples and the lines on his forehead and around his eyes. They had been protesting against calling each other old earlier, but Pete couldn’t ignore the evidence that they had both aged. And what had that given them? More suffering than he would ever wish on another human being in his case and what seemed to be dreadful loneliness on Tom’s end. Pete knew that if he was widowed and the only people he truly had for company were Nick and Carole, who’d always been insufferably happy with each other, he would feel lonely too. Maybe it was a good thing he was back now, for more than just his recovery.
Maybe they could recover together.