#tom iceman kazansky x ofc

[ohtobemare]

Abstracts, Part 3 • Iceman x OFC

Summary: He’s pretty sure she could tell him anything and he’d still listen, a fact he isn’t sure he should be as comfortable with as he is. 

Length: ~3k

Pairings: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x OFC

Warnings: Angst, mentions of cancer/tracheotomy, age gap, religious undertones.

Part 2

There’s really only a handful of moments in his life he can remember being truly, and utterly breathless, and each one of them he usually can remember in vivid detail. So much detail, in fact, that somewhere buried in his mountains of art, he’s attempted to convey some of those euphoric moments through varying medias of artistry—sketches, acrylics. Abstracts and pop art. Welding. 

Significant moments demand the significant graces art can give. All too quickly as Theo bids them good evening, Tom slips around his desk to escort the glorious piece of art that’s graced his office out the door. Kicking it back lightly with the heel of his foot, he arcs his arm wide to allow her exit first, her smile nearly glinting at him as she sashays into the hallway in a breath of curl, skirt, and perfume. 

Pulling the office door closed, Tom checks her approaching a piece hanging in the corridor from the corner of his eye. It’s a small, seemingly insignificant canvas he’d happened upon via a trip to Sante Fe last summer—done by a senior at the local highschool. 

 She’d been selling her work to raise money for her grandmother’s medical bills, and like the effort of every true artist, had painted a series intended to sell. Her grandmother had loved the series, and had explained that she’d pleaded with her granddaughter to keep them. Standing beneath the sun licking at the rocks of Sante Fe, he’d been moved. Grieved, really. 

No one could be so moved by the girl’s vision as her own grandmother, that was evident. She was obviously destined to have the series. They weren’t expensive, but there was potential for them to be— Ice had not only paid well and beyond the price for the series, but he’d sent them home with the grandmother. Loaded them in his rental and bussed the pair of them home. 

Spending the day having lunch and organizing the canvases about the grandmother’s small home, Ice had been so impressed with the girl’s demeanor and her artistic eye that he’d commissioned three smaller works from her, flown her to the studio, and put her—and her artwork—on display for all of San Diego. 

His favorite of the three hung in his office, the other two, in this corridor. 

As beautiful as the canvases are, he can’t quite bring himself to admire them—instead, he’s magnetized to her. The way her hair seems to flow and curl without really moving at all. How the graceful tilt of her head seems to consider the world, and not just a canvas hanging from a nail in the wall. She seems to glow, even in the dim lights of the studio, in ways not at all unlike a chiaroscuro of shadow and light—like memories spinning in and out of focus. 

He’ll never forget her eyes, even if he can’t fully recall the features of her face, and the way they seemed to pierce his soul like the tip of a dagger. Her hand had fit perfectly into his, like it was created for him. He’d honed into her smile and he’d lost any and all sense of reason and time, like staring into the sun. 

Tom didn’t remember a time ever feeling quite so impacted by the opposite sex. Still, he could feel the freight train she’d hit him with still trying to break through his ribcage. Sure, women had come and gone throughout his life, his career. The uniform always won them over. The money, the power—he’d had his fair share of flings, of romantic endeavors. He was a lover more than he was a fighter in relationships, strange as the concept for an admiral would seem, and had loved and lost each and every one of them. 

He hadn’t really been inclined to love and lose again. Hadn’t felt worthy. Ready. Or maybe it was subliminally fear of rejection, of incompatibility with the direction his life had chosen. Communication was the lifeblood of any relationship—how did a man whose primary mode of communication had been ripped from him navigate the highs and lows of human relationship? It was arduous enough without this cruel twist of reality. 

And now, with this God-forsaken hole in his windpipe—how….is this even desirable? Is this something his confidence can overcome, others can see beyond? Everyone and anyone in his life after the surgery first saw the tube, and then the man. It dictated everything—how he slept, how he moved; what he ate, how he communicated—thus, it would follow him, and everyone else in his life, like a close shadow. A veil—a shroud. 

How he would ever be seen first as Tom Kazansky again, not this damn trach, was one of those “God’s ways are higher than ours” moments. Slowly–painfully slowly he’d started to come to terms with this. It wasn’t easy. It ate away at everything like cancer (a thought that is hilarious) and was a thief–it robbed so much more than health. Strength. It robbed hope. 

Once he’d been a bronze idol of power, sex, glory. A lifetime of honing his body for the female gaze, for perfection. He wasn’t shy about it—he was full of himself. He knew he looked good and reveled in it, utilized it as a weapon. 

Which, looking back over the grand game of life, with that always-coveted twenty-twenty vision,was wrong. Probably prompted this turn of events. Vain to a fault, certainly, but not for a lack of effort–he hadn’t hated seeing his own appearance, and women hadn’t either. 

They’d flocked to him, and a small, shallow part of himself had always taken some pleasure in it. Once. 

A poison of its own, really. Venom that seeps deep into the core and separates the blood of humility and character. The character of “Iceman” had become an idol of its own, in a sense—an idol that had lifted him from the dust of which he’d been formed, to put it biblically. After a stellar career, all the recognition a man could ever desire, women at his disposal—it had come crashing down. Oh so swiftly, with one simple word. 

Tom, if he was able, could chuckle at the irony. A lifetime of building himself up for one moment to tear it to shreds. The Psalmist is right in his Proverbs recollection—beauty is fleeting. So much of his life had been wasted chasing beautiful, shallow, hollow things. None of it could save him, help him, or comfort him. Foolish, foolish—had he always been so stupid? 

He chooses not to think about it. 

Instead, he puts these things into more important aspects of his current state of affairs. There are more pertinent things, things that don’t require so much flawed effort. Why think about things he already knows when there is so much left that he doesn’t? The art universe and all its wonders has so much to offer, so many minds to shape. 

So much hope. Art had saved him. Resurrected him and given him a second chance. Much like God Himself had destroyed the world in Genesis for a new slate to begin again with the righteous found in the universe, so had he been given new life. God had created again, and so must he. 

“This is beautiful,” 

Tom immediately ushered to the sound of her voice, his feet carrying him down the corridor to her nearly of their own mind. She gestures to the canvas with a finger, before she presses it over her lips in a look of contemplation, head still canted to the side as she studies. He smiles at her concentration, is mesmerized by the way her lashes fan the cream-like skin beneath her eyes every time she blinks. 

Quickly he forgets the mechanics of his breathing and has to rally, glancing down at his feet. Boiling beneath the ascott, he gently takes a finger and pulls at the material of the scarf, but it does little good—it’s not the temperature of the room that’s searing him. It’s heat from his core, from the very center of him, that responds to her. He could reach out and touch her, if he wanted—he’s forgotten what her hand feels like and he can think of nothing, suddenly, that’s more tragic than this fact. 

He nods once, smiling softly as she looks back to him. “It isn’t signed?” He shakes his head, no. It’s not. Not visibly, anyway—it’s signed in other ways. In his memories, his heart. Brow falling into a wrinkle, she angles back to view it again. 

“Anyone I know?” 

He shrugs again. Probably not. Realizing he’s forgotten a pen, he lets the question hang there between them, his coy smile the only form of answer he’s willing to give for a few heartbeats. However, she does look genuinely puzzled by the lack of information, so Ice reaches for the Sharpie behind his ear, uncaps it, and realizing he’s forgotten paper, instead takes to the back of his hand. In thick, bold strokes, he recaps the marker, sticks it back behind his ear, and lits his hand into her line of sight. 

Does it really matter? 

She blinks, once. He watches her bristle—the question has surprised her. Using only her sparkling eyes, she looks from the question painted on his hand to his face. For a second, the blankness on her face worries him that she’s missed the point of the question, the entire concept—but after a few heartbeats, a few pulses of blood that seem to sing in his ears, her lips slowly curl upward in a smile. 

Sapphire eyes glinting jovially, her nose wrinkles and she bites her bottom lip, bobbing on her feet a second. 

“Not really, huh?” Shaking her head a little, her curls move in a way that is nearly hypnotic and levels him, “I suppose that’s kinda the point of the art, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter where it comes from, only that it exists and means something,” turning from the canvas, she moves to step behind him, arms crossed over her chest as she studies the floor beneath them for a moment, “I’ve studied your work for a long time, Admiral, and—”

Triggered to a stop when he waves his hand in front of his throat in the no-go signal, her brow wrinkles in a puzzled way as she bats aside a few strands of curl, eyes tracking him for clarity. Taking the writing utensil from behind his ear again, he adds another note to match the first, in bolder, capitalized strokes. Her eyes track the letters, and she nods once, understanding.

“Tom. Okay,” she smiles. “A good salt of the earth name you’ve got there, Tom.” She makes a point to emphasize his first name, “But Kazansky—is that Russian?” 

It shouldn’t sound as lovely as it does from her, but, he’s fairly certain nobody has managed to say his name so wonderfully. Putting a hand to her breast she introduces herself, and Tom can kinesthetically feel the vault of his memory capture the syllables and consonants, the phonetics of it in the back of his brain. He’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to let it go. 

 Without asking she falls into step beside him as they take the corridor in a few strides, and her arm casually loops through his as if she’s known him longer than the five seconds he’s known her name. He doesn’t mind—actually, his entire frame lights up like a control panel, and for a second he redlines, feeling how astronomically perfect the weight of her arms feels in the crook of his. This isn’t the first time he’s walked like this with women, but it feels like it is. 

Or maybe it’s the only time he’s ever done so that actually matters. 

She chatters on about everything and nothing with quick, staccato tones, and he isn’t even trying to really discern or process anything she’s saying—he just wants her to speak. To fill up the quiet, empty space with words and the way she giggles when she says something funny; how her tone fluctuates when she impersonates someone he isn’t likely to ever know. Her voice is loud, clear, present—it rings in a way that, to the everyday world, would be perhaps crude. But to a man who can only ever hope to speak so pointedly again, it is magical. 

 As he listens to the flow, bend, and curve of every word, he’s fairly sure she has no idea that he can’t stop looking at her, and hasn’t, as they make their way around the canvas of walls in his studio. Her profile is captivating, he seems to have emblazoned the shape of her nose and the swell of her orbital bone in the back of memory as she gestures and makes commentary. 

By traditional standards, she isn’t beautiful. Actually, by most standards of society she’s well in the territory of “simply pretty” or even “cute,” but neither term seems to encapsulate the soul pouring into the room before him at dizzying, mach speeds. Once, Iceman may never have even noticed her—she’d be another body, another female in the sea of faces that made up his former life. To his horror and shame, he may not have even given her a passing glance, or even a chance to exchange words, and what a travesty that would be. 

Lighting up the room, shattering the lines of his small corner of the universe into oblivion, she is nearly glowing. She isn’t from California—if he hadn’t caught her sharing that, her accent and the way her forehead seems to perpetually glisten with the ocean humidity, even in this air conditioned space, is evidence enough. She’s from the midwest, far inland, where “the only things considered art is the growing stalk of corn or maybe the dancing cut of wheat, should you get to see it” which means rural, wide-open country. Land that breathes and moves and churns with the slow art of growing life—where the pulse of the concrete is instead in the earth, where the endless sky meets the horizon. 

He hasn’t spent time in the grainbelts of this country, and by the short description she offers, he suddenly wishes he understood and knew everything she means. The desert, be it California, Nevada; Sante Fe or Arizona, is his home. Ocean has become a constant companion, from his youth on Honolulu or his career in the Pacific Fleet. He perhaps couldn’t grow a weed if he’d been asked, but suddenly, the expanse of earth and the promise of a harvest is all too appealing. 

A void which her life offers suddenly opens in him, and he isn’t sure why. 

“Tom?” 

He’s zoned out and realizes it, his gaze snapping up to her only when he registers his name and the light clap of her hand on his arm. Blinking, the corner of his mouth lifts a little and he dips his head to her, features slightly pulling into an apologetic wrinkle that says he’s missed the question and is sorry for it. 

Gesturing to her, he mouths Sorry, and rolls his eyes. Grinning at him a little, she nods her understanding, before gesturing to the art table in the center of the room, brow lifting a little as if she’s seeking permission to approach it. Angling to glance at it over his shoulder, he nods—feels palpable grief when her arm slips from his as she approaches the space. 

 “About this art I’m looking for,” she says a little stronger to fill the distance between them, and he’s prompted to weave a slow, contemplative path toward her to the other side of the table. Picking up a stained, hard brush, she smooths her hand over it, and only her eyes lift to consider him gently taking to the stool behind him, “I was wondering if you’d be interested in taking it on for me.” 

Surprised, his brow pops. Oh? 

She gets his meaning, her face suddenly flushing with a hue of pink that is nothing short of delightful. “Yes, actually. This space in Nashville is tragically blessed with the most beautiful walls, and they are in desperate need of art. Art that matters, that will be seen and speak to folks. I’m not looking to spend a lot, but I want pieces that have meaning, and that is something you specialize in––something I’ve been following since I first saw you online.” 

She’s known who he is for awhile, then. Smile growing, he has felt no greater joy in spades than he does now at the idea of her following him around the internet. Tracing the front of his teeth with his tongue, a stab of pride hits him between the ribs. 

“’m willing to pay a fair price,” she adds, her gaze dropping back to the brush. Setting it down, her hands hit the table and she leans over it a little, brow raising in a matter adjacent to negotiation, “or maybe do some trading, if you’re into that kind of thing.” 

What she has to trade interests him greatly, though in honesty, he does need currency. It isn’t off the table. Tom is fairly certain that this short time in her glory, he’d given her blood if that was what was required of him. He can’t say that, however—that’s not appropriate, but it’s how he feels. Filing it away for later, he nods his consent to understanding. 

Reaching forward, he taps the table once with his finger, then turns his hand over to rest it palm-up on the cool steel. Waving his fingers in a gimme gesture, he winks at her, and relishes in the way her smile grows as his brows wag, telling. 

Tell me more, he mouths, rapping his knuckles on the table. 

He’s pretty sure she could tell him anything and he’d still listen, a fact he isn’t sure he should be as comfortable with as he is. 

The taglist: @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @angstytalesr-us @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @genius2050 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake @aviatorobsessed

[bobgasm]

kingpin ⦾ eight

pairing: robert“bob” floyd x ofc!emery young word count: 3263 warnings: pretty mild chap tbh, issues at the casino, digging into emery’s past, meeting with richard, morgan thinks emery is hiding something,

summary: in which emery meets morgan floyd

author’s note: hiatus be damned 😂 i’ve posted two new bob fics and am starting a whole stripper!rhett movement as well. enjoy

seven | kingpin | nine

Bob tapped his fingers on the table as he watched the second hand on the clock slowly tick its way around. He wasn’t surprised that his father had called a meeting, but he was surprised that he’d called it during work hours. It made him antsy having Richard and their closest confidants in the conference room while Emery was next door. She hadn’t been brought up to speed, but most importantly, they weren’t sure if they could trust her yet.

Coyote sat to Bob’s immediate right, as it had been for a long time. His presence always calmed Bob whenever Richard called these meetings. Most of the time they were good and productive, but other times a phone call to Bob for any updates would have sufficed. 

Bob knew what this meeting was about. He was bringing everyone up to speed on Decker’s disappearance. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell and Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, sat at the table to Bob’s far left. They had previously served under Richard’s orders, and while the men had grown older and phased out of their roles, they were still Richard’s most loyal men. Everyone else at the table was under Bob’s command, since Richard had been slowly phasing himself out of the business. 

If you asked Bob, he was stalling. He didn’t really want to get out, but Heather had given him an ultimatum. She wanted to retire happily with no more death and bloodshed knocking at their door. She didn’t want to lose her husband before his time, and she’d been patient for years. Waiting for the day their son was old enough to take over, but the day couldn’t come fast enough. Though she hated the idea of her son being the target, Bob thrived in the environment. There had been a steady decline in deaths amongst their men with Bob at the head of the table. 

Reuben “Payback” Fitch flanked Coyote’s right side. He owned a boxing gym not too far away, where Bob liked to spend his early mornings training with Coyote. The men were all close. Young in age and had proven themselves worthy of a seat at the table.

At Bob’s immediate left was Halo, and to her left was the spot typically reserved for Decker. Dominic Decker, who had been their accountant up until recently, but had decided late one night to throw in the towel and retire. Something no one took lightly. 

Even Ice and Mav had understood the process of being phased out. They were still loyal to Richard, but no longer handling a lot of the heavy grunt work, even if Mav would argue to whoever was listening that he was still as fit as the younger guys.

Bob knew the two older men had worked closely with Decker in the past. He also knew that to everyone else present, his seat being empty wasn’t a good sign. Coyote was the only one who officially knew, but had brought Mav and Ice in to try and find him. As soon as Richard arrived to start the meeting, they’d all be brought up to speed.

Bob ground his teeth together as the time displayed his father was now twenty minutes late. Everyone sat in tense silence. He was in half a mind to commandeer the meeting himself, but before he could, Richard entered the room.

He said nothing as he sat, but took a second to nod a ‘hello’ to everyone in the room.

“Where’s Omaha?” Richard asked.

Everyone turned to look at Bob. “Nebraska,” he answered, trying to hide his smirk. “His grandmother isn’t well. I’ll bring him up to speed later.”

Richard grunted. “Very well. Robert?”

“Dominic Decker retired by email almost two weeks ago. Up until then, he was our accountant. Some of you know him better than others.” Bob referred to his men knowing Decker, not Ice or Mav. They knew there was someone well trusted making sure the books were tidy, but other than that, he was faceless to them. Richard and a robert liked to run things differently. “He gave no warning that he wanted to retire, no chance to bring a new accountant in until it was too late. I’ve had to bring someone in who is extremely green to try and keep on top of everything Decker left. It’s too early to tell if she’s someone we can trust, but Coyote is looking into her past. See if there’s anything we can use as leverage.”

Bob nodded at Coyote. “Until I’m satisfied with my results, Bob will be handling any off the book payments personally. Our main priority is to find Decker.”

“Ice and I managed to find that he was heading south and crossed the border into Mexico,” Maverick informed everyone. “He used Richard’s name.”

“Son of a bitch!” Richard erupted, slamming his hand down on the table. “Why am I only being informed of this now?”

“You left me in charge of this,” Bob stated calmly. 

“I told you I wanted updates as soon as you had them!” Richard bellowed. 

Thankfully, no one dared to speak up. Bob stared his father down. “You made the call to let me handle this,” he reminded Richard. “I’m handling this.”

“You’re letting other people handle it for you!” Richard snapped. 

“The more eyes we have trying to find Decker, the better. We don’t have time to waste. Coyote, Maverick and Iceman were acting on my authority. We also have someone tracking his possible movements. Someone Decker has never seen before.”

Bob thought his father was about to blow an aneurysm the way his face reddened. If it was possible, he was sure steam would blow from his ears. “Who?”

“Hangman,” Bob stated. “If Decker’s running from us, we can’t have anyone he knows trying to follow him. Hangman’s the best. He’s already reported that Decker flew out of Mexico using the name Cooper Smith.”

“Where is he now?”

“We believe he’s in Quito, Ecuador,” Coyote replied. “He was seen getting off the plane, but his credit card records show he bought further tickets to Madrid, Dubai and Moscow.”

Richard’s scowl was permanently set on his face, anger blazing in his eyes as he stared at Bob. “Find him and bring him to me.”

Bob had been avoiding the office for most of the day. Since the meeting earlier that morning, he’d tried to keep himself busy with other work. For the most part, it was chasing up overdue invoices on behalf of Emery. Emery, who everyone still believed to be Decker, and Bob intended to keep it that way until the man was found.

Or it had been decided that Emery could be trusted.

Bob hoped that Coyote’s background check proved to be fruitful. He hoped there was something in her past that would make her easy to manipulate to do their bidding. It wasn’t fair, but he was desperate. He needed her brought up to speed sooner rather than later. He needed to make sure everyone was getting paid, not just the legally employed. 

He regretted giving Emery so much free reign, but her credentials meant she knew what she was doing. He had to trust that she would approach him with any queries or concerns, but he hoped like hell there weren’t any. He had left Decker to his own devices for the most part, so God only knows how he organised things. He couldn’t stop the voice in the back of his mind telling him that Emery already knew – that she was smarter than she let on. He had to give her the benefit of the doubt for now. 

At least until Coyote found something they could use against her. 

“What are you doing?” Morgan asked. Bob sighed as he held his phone to his ear, leaning back in his chair and loosening his tie. 

He decided he’d fucked around long enough and should show face at the office. Even if there was only Halo and Emery to show face for, he had to do it. His father was still the Don, the boss. Getting reamed in front of everyone for the way he’d chosen to handle a task that Richard had given him wasn’t ideal. It made him look unreliable. He hated looking like a fool, but whenever Richard called a meeting, Bob was an easy scapegoat.

“Paperwork,” Bob replied blandly. “What do you want?”

“Richard wanted me to remind you that he’s taking mom away for their anniversary,” she told him. He sighed once again and ran a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s not a good time, but mom’s been excited for this trip for weeks.”

“I know. Did Richard say where they’re going?” Bob asked. It would be exactly like his father to suggest they go to Ecuador, since his men recently revealed that’s where they think Decker is. 

“The farm,” Morgan replied. 

The farm was a few thousand acres the Floyd family owned in Montana. Bob assumed their mother suggested the farm, since that’s where they got married. If she had it her way, they’d never return to the city. They’d spend the rest of their days growing old and tending to a few cattle. 

“Maybe mom’ll talk some more sense into him about retiring,” Bob mused, reaching for a pen on his desk and twirling it around his fingers. “It’s growing old, having two people in charge. If he doesn’t go peacefully, you know it’ll be a war.”

Morgan hummed her approval. “I think he’ll go once Decker is found,” she admitted. “I think he feels personally slighted by his…retirement.”

Bob laughed at the distaste in her voice. “We all feel personally slighted by his retirement. Add in the fact that he used Richard’s name to cross the border…there’s no telling what he’ll do if I don’t find him first.”

“Where are you on that?”

“I’ll meet you at Feather’s later,” he replied, blowing out a breath. 

“Bring Emery with you. I’d still like to meet her, then we can talk later,” Morgan replied. “I’m heading over to Dice. We have a high roller I need to keep an eye on. Guy seems to keep winning big. Mind sending Coyote over for a bit?”

“I’ll call him now.” Bob wasted no time ending the call and tapping Coyote from his recents. “Morgan needs you at Dice.”

“Everything okay?”

“High roller keeps winning big. Check the footage and suggest a change of deck, dice or staff, but make it seem like it’s her idea.”

“I’m on it,” he replied. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thanks.” A knock at his door prompted him to end the call quickly. “Come in!”

The door cracked open and Bob briefly acknowledged Emery as he tightened his tie again. “Sorry to bother you, Bob,” she apologised.

“No bother,” he assured her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I’ve been looking into ways to better secure your current banking system. I need your approval to sign off on a list of approvers for payments. I know it adds an extra step to paying bills, but this way you have an idea of what money is outgoing each week. Right now, it means that I’m loading payments and approving them, which doesn’t fill me with a lot of confidence. I’d feel better if you were the one making the final approvals.”

Bob mulled it over. “What does it entail?”

“You’d need to call the bank and ask for a separate login, as well as request that my login be strictly for loading payments. Once a week, I’d send you a screencap of the payments with a little explanation about what they’re for. It wouldn’t take too long to approve them, depending on how many were sitting there requiring your approval.”

She’d taken a seat by now, one leg crossed neatly over the other. Bob had noticed she’d been in the office a lot more frequently, though he hadn’t felt the need to comment on it. 

“Okay, I think that’s a great idea,” he replied. “Keeps me more informed about our weekly expenses, too. I’ll make the call.”

“Brilliant,” she replied with a smile, relaxing slightly. “That makes me feel better.”

Bob gave her a smile of his own. “Are you free later? Morgan’s still on my ass about meeting you.”

“Do I meet the dress code today?” She asked him, earning a laugh in response. “Yeah, that’s fine. I have time.”

“We’ll head over to Feather’s after work,” he told her. “The girls don’t start until nine. It’s a regular bar until then.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to clarify, but he watched relief flood her features regardless. 

“My sister is going to get a kick out of it when I tell her you’re taking me to a strip club tonight.”

Bob heeded Emery’s advice to contact the bank and go about creating a new login that had to approve the payments. Her suggestion was smart and he wondered if that was common practice. That he’d had too much trust in Decker to ever worry about it before, but then he remembered his father. Richard wasn’t tech savvy at all. Anything that was more effort than a phone call, he was clueless about. Still, it would’ve been a good safety measure to have in place no matter how much trust Richard had in Decker.

It was shortly after five when Bob offered to drive Emery to Feathers, but she politely declined. 

“I don’t want to have to detour back here to pick my car up when we’ve finished,” she explained. “I’ll meet you there?”

Bob smiled in response, agreeing to meet her there before he headed out. Making the twenty minute drive to Feathers, but traffic saw him arrive at 6:15. He parked his car in the lot and waited at the entrance for Emery, who pulled in a short while later. He held the door open for her before leading her through the club, towards a booth that Morgan occupied as her makeshift office. 

Morgan greeted them both with a smile. “Hi, I’m Morgan, it’s great to finally meet you.”

Emery shook the hand Morgan outstretched towards her and gave her a smile of her own. “I’m Emery, and likewise.”

“Bob, you mind getting us some drinks? What do you want, Emery?” Morgan asked, gesturing for Emery to take a seat. She did hesitantly while letting her eyes flit between the Floyd siblings. 

“Oh, um, I’ll have a sprite,” she told him. 

Bob nodded, turning on his heel to grab it for her. Making himself comfortable behind the bar and pouring himself a whiskey on the rocks, making a vodka soda for Morgan and a simple sprite for Emery. Popping straws in the tall glasses before carrying them back to the table. He took a seat beside Morgan. 

“How’re you settling in?” Morgan asked. Bob was curious to know, too. 

Emery played with the straw in her drink. “Yeah, good, thank you,” she replied politely. “It’s a lot of work to comb through and familiarise myself with again, but I think I’m doing alright.”

“Have you found a place here yet?” Was Morgan’s follow-up question. 

“My sister and I have agreed on a place,” Emery said. 

“Penny’s been helping them,” Bob told Morgan. He wasn’t sure if he’d mentioned it yet, but he knew his sister would appreciate the reminder. 

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Morgan gushed. “She helped me find the location for Feathers a few years back.”

“Yeah.”

Morgan shared a look with Bob who merely sipped his whiskey as the two women talked. Emery wasn’t very forthcoming with information, and whether that was because her boss was sitting next to her or she was more reserved, Bob didn’t know. What he did know, however, was that Morgan was persistent. She had her own unique way of making people talk. 

When Bob had similar issues, he tended to use his fists. 

“What’s your sister’s name?” Morgan continued her interrogation. 

Emery sipped her drink before setting it back on the coaster. “Natasha. Nat.”

“How old is she? Do you have any more siblings?”

“Twenty eight,” Emery replied. “No, just Nat.”

“What about your parents? What do they do?” Morgan tried again. 

Bob watched Emery close herself off. She sat up a little straighter, a hand grabbing for the opposite arm. She pressed her lips together in a thin line, eyes focused on the condensation running down the glass in front of her. 

“My mom’s a waitress,” she revealed. “Never knew my father.”

“Do you see your mom often?” Bob asked. 

Emery nodded. “I try to.”

“That’s good. Family’s important,” Bob said, casting a sideways look at Morgan. “Unless your name is Morgan Floyd.”

Morgan wasted no time hitting Bob’s shoulder. He barely flinched, but the interaction made Emery smile. She relaxed a little, enough to let go of her arm. 

“Excuse my brother,” Morgan told her. “I’d say you get used to him, but you don’t really.”

Emery gave a small laugh and reached for her drink. “Spoken like an older sibling.”

Bob chuckled. “Not wrong there.”

Morgan steered the conversation back to Emery. She asked a few more personal things, like where she went to school, how old she was and the like. Bob was surprised to learn she was 24, but that she had paid her way through college at the University of Southern California. He’d known that from her interview, but hearing it again didn’t hurt. It solidified that she was driven, like she’d said. 

Emery kept things brief. Once she’d finished her drink and spent enough time with Morgan, she made the call to leave. She still had a long drive home, so Morgan bade her farewell and Bob walked her out to her car. 

“Sorry about her, I didn’t think she’d pry as much as she did, otherwise I would’ve given you warning,” Bob apologised. 

“I get it. I’m a new face in your family’s business. She’s trying to build a rapport.” Emery clicked the button on her fob to unlock her car. “You didn’t have to walk me out just so you could apologise on her behalf.”

“The bouncers don’t arrive until eight, when the dancers start arriving,” Bob explained. “There’s some people in the world who’d want to hurt you because they felt like you owed them something. Being a woman in a parking lot of a strip club would’ve been like an open invitation to try something. Goodnight, Ms Young. Drive safe.”

She thanked him, briefly pausing to give him one last look of appreciation before getting into her car. Bob waited until she’d driven off to enter the club and join his sister again.

“She seems nice, albeit reserved,” Morgan said. 

Bob nodded in agreement. “Add in the fact that I asked her to meet my sister at a strip club.” He ran his hand over his face. “Probably thinks we’ve got some kind of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ thing going on.”

Morgan barked out a laugh. “Of course you’d be concerned with the pretty young accountant thinking that. You’re an idiot. I assume Coyote’s running a background check on her?”

“You assume correct,” Bob replied, signaling the bartender for another whiskey. “How’d things go at Dice earlier?”

“Guy paid off the dealer. Split the winnings 50/50. Coyote took care of it.”

Bob nodded. “Good.”

“Keep an eye on her.” So they’re back to Emery, Bob thought. “She’s hiding something.”

“We’ve all got secrets,” Bob reminded her. “Bet the skeletons in my closet are worse than the ones in hers.”

[persephone11110]

kissing you during life and death

tom kazansky x reader

tw:sad w/happy ending, death, alzheimers diease, curse words

summary : her entire career she’s beaten death like no other, but this time around she can’t.

callsign:blackbird(reader likes to toe the line between life and death) ofc name: demetria kazansky

—

San Francisco CA, 09/09/89

“Oh geez just fucking kiss already” slider yelled across the bar at the two pilots. you looked back at your friend giving him the bird, Iceman gently grabbed your head making your lips crash together with his.

Your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach, you Demetria Knight are kissing the Iceman. you’ve never felt this before in your entire life , kissing him felt life ending in a good way.

Till this day 30 plus years later kisssing your husband gave you life every fucking time.

When the doctor told Tom you had alzheimers, never in million years did he think his wife Blackbird could die by a diease, unlike this time a kiss wasn’t going to solve the heartache you both felt.

Telling the kids, something was wrong with their mother who’s beaten death over a thousands of time felt like hell. One of the few things you could remember was your son TJ sobbing aganist your chest begging you to tell him that the doctors wrong about the diagnosis. Lizzie laid her head on top of her father’s shoulder , weeping . Hearing the sobs of her children almost made her break apart even more than already had.

Surely right, you were only 58 years old, lived a somewhat healthy life. So why is death knocking on your door tonight?

You, Demetria Rose Kazansky have a date with death a person your very familiar with. Unlike the other times you and him talked , this time he told you werent making out alive this time.

You felt your life crashing down into pieces, you couldn’t remember a time you and death talked and he didn’t spare you.

You stood shell shock , staring at a painting of you and Tom both in your naval dress blues holding hands. There a detail you remembered by heart, you and Tom were equals in your marriage, you wanted to follow stereotypes and take pictures in a dress, Tom wasn’t having it and told you,“we both protect and serve , we both wear the uniform”.

You wanted to be Demetria Kazanksy again.

Ever day Alzheimers won aganist your brain making you forget about important and simple things.

The biggest thing you forgot was about Carole Bradshaw’s death, in your mind the woman was alive and healthy.

You and Carole talked for awhile she told you about how her and Goose were doing.

Walking in on this Tom felt his heart be repeatedly shattered with pain. Here’s his wife deteriorating and losing against death and their nothing he can to do stop it.

—-

Carole visited you again but this time you could feel the looming sadness coming off her.

“sweetie come with me when your ready” she told you grabbing your hands with tears sliding down her face. Before you could ask her what she meant she was gone back into the light.

The diease won in the end , you and Tom were in bed with your head against his chest.

“I love you the most”

“I love you til death do us apart” you whispered so softly as your voice lacked its usual base from all the crying you did earlier.

He kissed you one more time, your chest was taking awhile to go up and down,you and Tom both knew was this meant.

You never questioned Tom’s love for you, tonight he needed for you to remember this.

“I love you my darlin” he switched from being behind you to being next to you, gazing into your dark eyes.

Your dark eyes shut with one more final look at the man you loved with your entire heart.

Tom stood infront of a podium in his dress blues, talking to crowd of people at your funeral about you. Talking about how much he loved you was easiest task in the world, letting you go may never happen.

You walked across the aisle of people in uniform and people in black. You caught the sight of your granddaughter Rosie sobbing alongside her uncle and mother.

The look of Ron Kerner and Pete Mitchell crying made you take a double glance.

You walked towards your husband Tom touching his cheek lightly, kissing him on the side of his face.

He looked to the side“she’s right here with us in life and death. The tiniest tear fell down his face, he could’ve sworn he felt a kiss against his cheek.

“i’m ready Carole”, she wiped a tear from your face , wrapping her arms around your shoulder.

[ohtobemare]

Abstracts, Part 1 • Iceman X OFC

Summary: It's been six months since the beginning of the end of his life. But, while Tom Kazansky still lives, parts of him have already died. And, he's made his peace with that. Maybe. Partially. But then she arrives, one glorious day in May, and reminds him that even dead things can, in fact, be brought back to life.

Length: ~1700 words

Pairings: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x OFC

Warnings: Angst, mentions of cancer/tracheotomy, age gap, religious undertones

There's little a man can do when he's handed his death sentence.

Written in hardly-legible cursive, which is then subsequently punched into one of seemingly endless computers that make up the world. That singular computer will digest that singular information, spin it endlessly in its trove of hardware and software as if it doesn't contain information that will, very literally, conclude the end of your life.

It will sit in the cold, unfeeling dungeon of cyberspace, existing as little more than just data. Attached to just another patient record. A record that is faceless, void of emotion, and by all sense of the word, unliving.

Until someone else assigns that record and its subsequent numbers a name. A date and location of birth—demographics that begin to paint the picture of someone who, subsequently, is very much alive and feeling.

A few keystrokes tell the cold and void machine now containing the end of your life to deposit everything that's been discussed on printed paper. Paper that an administrative professional, who has sense changed shifts since the arrival of this dreadful news, hands you with the softest, most sympathetic look a stranger could offer another face which adds to the sea of those she will see over the course of eight hours.

"We'll call you to confirm the appointment," is all she says, handing over the paperwork. "Oncology will leave a message if they can't reach you."

And that's it. Left to face the cold and rigid lines of the world beyond this haven, which has suddenly and unexpectedly become an Eden of safety and promise, the paper is little more than a detail in what has become the last chapter of his life.

At least, that's what he thinks. What he feels. And if not for feeling?

He may as well already be dead.

XxxX

"...we're looking at complete loss of speech, Tom. Tracheotomy is the only light we have at the end of this tunnel. Communication will be difficult, but not entirely impossible. You'll have to adapt—"

The memory of the words rings cold and sharp against the cavity of Admiral Tom Kazansky's chest as he tracks the numbers on the calendar hanging in front of him. It's been six months. Six months to the day since his diagnosis, since the beginning of the end of his living days.

He's not dead, of course. Not yet. Remission means something to the people on the other end of this disease, on the statistical side of cancer. Usually, the words "in remission" were a lifeline to the dying—a weapon against death standing at the door. Chased into the wings, thousands of people continued living with remission forever the adjective before their name.

But just because his body isn't dead doesn't mean a part of him is still living. Iceman still draws breath, his heart still beats a little stronger every day he wakes up and pulls himself out of bed. But a larger part of him–the blissfully ignorant parts—aren't the same. They flatlined the day his doctor had scheduled him for an appointment with oncology, when in reality, he'd simply come in for a wellness check.

The anniversary date, circled in vermilion marker, glares back at him. A spot on his record of life. He doesn't remember writing it, of course—Ice doesn't remember a lot of things these days. But, it's handwriting that can only belong to him. He doesn't remember writing it, no, but he knows his own handwriting.

SIX MONTHS is circled so boldly, so determinedly, that he can only feel distraught that the Tom who had sat down to mark this date half a year ago had been so doomsday. So apocalyptic. His six-months-ago self had been hopeless, drowning in anger and fear and confusion— marking out a date on a calendar had been poignant, important enough to warrant capital letters and the importance of a red Sharpie marker.

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he stares at the date.

Six months is a long damn time. He remembers the days that he could blink and half a year had already happened—but not anymore. Six months was unfathomable to those who watched the sands in their hourglass pass through the needle's eye. When he'd schedule this date, six months had felt fleeting. Like a drop in the bucket.

But the reality is this—six months is six months.

He shakes his head and pulls his eyes off the calendar, instead dropping them to the desk before him. Pristine, everything is as it should be, including a marker that is sure to be identical to the one he's already recognized for a good ten minutes on the calendar. Grabbing it, he snaps the cap off, discards it, and spins the marker through his fingers, its sharp, acidic scent as familiar as it probably had been six months ago.

Smirking, he takes the Sharpie and scrawls REMISSION through the bold, printed letters of May, which really don't deserve the wrath of his scrawl. Satisfied that this month this year will forever be marked with his victory, he recaps the marker and sticks it behind his ear. It looks good. Poignant.

It's all anyone who glances at the calendar will ever notice. Akimbo before the calendar, arms crossed over his chest, he smiles at the feeling lighting up every vein in his body. There's still a dull ache behind his ribs, this damn tube is still sensitive and raw at home in his throat, but there is something new—something he hasn't felt in a long damn time.

"Ice? You here?"

The voice calling to him from beyond the office is familiar—it's one of his students. Moving from the calendar to exit the office, he emerges from the small space and into the air of the studio, which is suddenly far more alive with the rush of lights and movement than it was when he'd slipped in here a few hours ago.

Kneading life into his hands, he approaches the young man unloading his backpack on one of the sculpture tables. Theo is one of the most gifted sculptors in the country, at least in his own opinion—he's been coming to the studio since he'd opened it. From Charlotte attending UCLA, Theo runs the floor when other matters demand his attention—other matters that pull him from his grotto, his place of healing.

Tom claps a hand on his shoulder, offering him a full smile. "Here early, aren't ya?" Theo teases him, offering his hand. Ice shakes it, like always, and shrugs a shoulder. "Figures. You're basically a vampire, you know that?"

His face twists into an amused wrinkle, prompting a grin from Theo. "Is there anything shipping out today?" There isn't, but, before he can offer a response Theo is backpedaling away from the table, thumbing over his shoulder, "I'm gonna make coffee. I'm dragging ass this morning, T."

Rolling his eyes, this kid doesn't even have an idea of what dragging ass actually means. There's little more privilege than spending your day tucked away in the confines of inspiration and peace, able to work for yourself and accomplish something as holy and serendipitous as art, and that's all Theo and others like him know.

Coming here, spending their days immersed in the lifeblood of culture and society—once, it had been nothing but a hope for him. A desire, a dream. One that was born after he started chasing sky and fulfilling his life's mission of flying for the United States. That had been manifested in his soul at birth, thanks to his father, but—-art. God, art. It had been in his veins, living against his heart, for thirty years.

It had only taken this damn disease—the end of his career—to recognize that heartbeat. And perhaps a small part of Tom Kazansky should be grateful that he's survived this, even without a voice. Because without this, art may never have found him. May never had revived him from the flatline his life had become.

Maybe he's a little grateful. Or stupid.

Either is a distinct possibility, these days.

Tags:

@cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @angstytalesrx @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @genius2050 @ohgodnotagainn

[ohtobemare]

Abstracts, Part 2 • Iceman x OFC

Summary: Art really is a beautiful thing, even if it is in a class of it's own. And he isn't just talking about the studio's newly-acquired curation, either.

Length: ~2400 words

Pairings: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x OFC

Warnings: Angst, mentions of cancer/tracheotomy, age gap, religious undertones.

"It's definitely not contemporary,"

"'mpressionist, either."

"Abstract, maybe?"

"Bro! That isn't even close to abstract!"

"Dawg, how can you even say that––that's like, like the category everything without a category falls into!"

If he was able, he would chuckle. Spinning the Sharpie through his fingers once, Tom angles the sketchpad between his fingers to face the group of young minds currently crescented in a half moon before his chair. The room is still in the presence of the canvas hanging on the wall before them as light tries bleeding into the studio from the pane windows only half curtained, facing the street.

Tapping the marker against the paper loudly, he snaps, brow popping to attention when each of them angle and turn in their seats to face him. Lowering his gaze to shoot them a look that reads all levels of "Really?", a few of them chuckle as they read the message he's scrawled across the blank page—

Missing the point–it's ART

A few of them eye roll, sliding back around to face the canvas.

And really, it is. Art is not bound to categorization, or event type. It exists as itself, a product of creative vision born from the creative. Corporate culture and the organized world pines to label art into the neat little box of category and type logistics, when in reality, art is limitless. Boundless, like time and air—anything, created with heart and vision and passion, born out of love, can be art. Words. Photography. Steel and concrete, pottery and paint—these, and countless other mediums, are art.

God Himself gave life to His visions with breath and light, something eternally beyond art. But, the more tangerines and lavenders he saw spin through the sky, the more foamy white of a churning ocean he remembers—he cannot help but think that such things, in their own way, are artful.

Life itself, in many ways, is art—birth, existence, death. Art, art—art.

He can feel it in his soul, most days. Swirling and buzzing like an instinct that's always been there. The only other thing he's ever felt clearer is flight, navigating the brilliant skies with confidence and a certainty that, even now, has never left him. You just can't communicate such things—they are giftings, he's sure. Giftings from a gracious God in heaven that understands what it means to crave and burn and thrum with thrill.

Draping a leg over the other, he rests the sketchbook on his lap, recapping the Sharpie and smacking it down the page. Eyes tracking down to his familiar handwriting, the corner of his mouth ticks up as the air thickens with the flutter with hushed musing and whispers, as if these kids aren't aware that it's his throat that's on the outs, not his ears. A few of them toss chance looks over their shoulders, maybe to check if he's still there.

They forget that his silence is permanent, for the most part. That talking is painful. That the absence of sound from Tom Kazansky doesn't mean absence of the body, anymore. God, what he wouldn't give to speak again—to have the power of voice. He'd never stop speaking. Why had he spent so much of his life worried about talking too much?

You never realize what you have until you lose it, the adage is true.

"Ice is right, guys," Theo sighs, claps his hands on the front of his jeans, and pulls himself up from his chair like he's anything but the thirty-something young man he actually is, "it doesn't matter what kind of art it is—it's art. Quit trying to figure it out and just study it. Figure out what it means to you. Because if you can figure out what it means to you, someone else will figure out what it means to them, and we can sell the damn thing."

Such is the purpose of art, and the studio. Tom smiles, head angling to consider Theo slipping out of the group. He puts a hand on his shoulders, giving it a light squeeze as the younger man flashes a bright, coy wink at him that says, See? I know exactly what I'm doing, when in reality, Ice's returned smile is just amused.

Theo has no more of an idea about the purpose of this moment than the rest of them—because neither does Tom.

It's an exercise he's put into practice since opening the studio. Study and reflection of curated commissions in the presence of creators is the essence of good art—if the studio doesn't study the piece, neither will any customer, and thus, the creation is doomed to hang on a wall, unobserved, when that was never its intended purpose.

Whether it sells or doesn't, it should touch the group that studies it.

And that is the essence of art. Meaning, even if we don't fully understand what it is. Tom smiles, thrumming his fingers along the spiral of his sketchbook—it's a lot like faith, he imagines. Things have meaning, have purpose, have existence, even if we cannot see or understand them. And maybe that's the great beauty of art at the core of the issue—it requires faith to understand art. Maybe even to make it.

One of the girls of the group turns around in her chair, arm winged over the back of it as her face falls into a contemplative wrinkle. Ice doesn't know her name—she's a new student. She'd waltzed into the art studio this morning, wanting to check things out and feel the pulse of the place. Theo had asked her to join, for her input. If Ice remembers correctly, she's a potter—clay is her medium of choice, and she's been quiet most of the session.

"Do you know what it is?"

His return smile is small, coy as he lifts a shoulder dismissively. His ideas of what the piece actually is and means doesn't matter—the artist is the only one who truly knows, or claims that they know. But an artist, half the time, only truly guesses.

He doesn't require artists sharing the purpose of any piece that finds its way into his studio. He'd prefer they didn't, doesn't believe in those bio cards that you see in museums or collections on display. One perspective of arts doesn't, in the grand scheme of things, truly matter—because art, like faith, finds people differently. In different seasons.

In truth, Tom Kazansky really has no idea. None whatsoever.

And as much as that thought should bother him as the group musters away from the piece, having drawn no real conclusions, it doesn't. Instead he just sits there, head canted, gazing at it. The damn tube is raw and unusually hot in his throat, but that's probably because of the ascott. He swallows a breath, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smirk.

Glancing down at the page, he uncaps the Sharpie again and circles his formally penned ART. Then, drawing an arrow off it, he scrawls in thick, bold strokes the only conclusion that he can draw about not only the piece, but the afternoon's session.

BEAUTIFUL

XxxX

"Hey, Ice—Tom. Can I introduce you to someone quick?"

It's after five in the afternoon when Theo's head comes poking around the corner of the studio office, his brow crooked up curiously as he considers the Admiral parked behind his standing desk, bent over a journal. A mountain of magazine, newspaper, and various other pop culture clippings teeters haphazardly to his right, threatening to spill over the pages Tom is currently pouring over with a poised Exacto knife.

Not lifting from his stoop, his eyes move to consider Theo, not looking the least bit impressed that he's been interrupted in such a crucial moment. Shoulders slumping, he releases a little puff of exasperated air, dropping the knife dramatically and resting his palms at either side of the journal. Half leaning against the table, his head lifts to consider the young man from Charlotte, brow lifted expectantly as his lips twist up in a mildly irritated manner.

He's been trying to work all afternoon. Curators, artists, students have been in and out of his office, eating up his working time. Anyone who's ever been around the studio knows that after 1 in the afternoon, Iceman retreats to his haven for his own work. These four walls are saturated with his inspiration, they bleed for him whenever he knicks the vein of opportunity.

Not only is this the best time of the day for him to muse, but—usually by this time he's exhausted. Communication is time consuming these days, requiring efforts one could never imagine. Ingenuity, brainpower. Improv. By the time he slips into this space he's frustrated, tired, and his social graces are redlined. Theo takes over for him, usually only peeks his head in when he's about to leave.

Resigned, Tom huffs and sinks onto the stool behind him, hands parted in a I guess, fine type of way. Clapping them on the thighs of his jeans, he relaxes onto the stool, lifting his feet to the bottom rung of it. Toes curling in his socks, waves Theo in.

Despite the look on Tom's face, Theo's mouth screws up in a smirk.

"Perfect. She's right out here—only be a second, I promise," slipping in through the door, Tom watches him wave the woman up to the doorway, and Theo steps aside to allow her to peek into the room. "Come on in," he probes, grinning.

"Thanks," comes the reply, before she's swinging into the door like a cool breeze off the ocean, and before Tom can even fully get a look at her, she's approaching the standing desk, hand outstretched to him in greeting while the other fidgets a loose spiral of curl behind her ear.

"Admiral Kazansky? My gosh, it's such an honor."

For a second time, relativity has stopped existing, and Tom worries that the earth has stopped spinning on its axis. If he were to glance out his window he'd be reliving the moment Joshua watched the God of Israel stop the sun, for certainly nothing beyond this moment could be actually real.

He's so captivated by her azure eyes, the perfect fullness of her lips and face, the way her lashes curl immaculately behind the clear frame of glasses that he doesn't even feel his heart slam to an all-stop in his chest. All of the feeling leaves his body, instead it's replaced with a white-noise, static-like numbness that seems to buzz through every vein and through his pores.

There's nothing really that can mirror the way it feels when your fighter touches down on the deck of a carrier, the way the line catches the arm just so. It's jarring for a moment, before adrenaline spikes the blood and reminds you that you've touched the closest thing to earth the surface of the ocean can muster. But, if there's anything close to that feeling, it's this.

She is the picture of radiance, of glory and beauty. The only thing that compares is perhaps the sun, or maybe the glittering universe of stars that hang in the sky. But, even they don't compare, because he's fairly certain the expanse of the world is laid out before him in the depth of her irises, which speak to him and somehow manage to see him in ways he's never experienced.

Her energy is wild. She's alive, so very, very alive—not one part of her is cold. Not one iota unfeeling. He can feel her, even from across the desk—can think of nothing he wants more than to touch her, to feel the life flowing through her veins. Tom swears that Icarus is lingering in her face, that he's glimpsed a too-close sun and will be blind should he look away.

Without thinking he slips off the stool without grace, stumbling forward under the weight of her eyes, somehow managing his hand into hers. God if she notices the moisture that's leapt into his hands she doesn't show it, but he's pretty sure both her and Theo could see his heart pounding through his ribs if they look closely enough.

Her lips move, but he's missed what she's said. What a tragedy. She could speak forever and he'd never be bored of her. She'd said his name and he'd been reborn, in places he never expected to feel again. Biting at the inside of his cheek, he somehow gathers the brainpower to smile at her and nod.

"I can't believe you're actually here," her head is shaking in disbelief, the reckless curls about her face dancing with the action, "I mean, I guess I hoped you'd be in-studio, but I assumed in my gut that you'd be gone for the day. I'd say it's divine intervention, but—not sure how many people actually believe in that here, really."

His world nearly stops when she releases his hand, her eyes tracking about his workspace swiftly. All at once he's embarrassed, proud, and a little uneasy having such a work of art examine his place of art. For a second he's worried he considers her a piece of art, but he can't help but think otherwise—she's beautiful. In not the average way. Much like the painting hanging freely on his studio wall.

Reaching for a pen and a clip of something he very quickly disregards, he pens the note carefully. In his best penmanship. In penmanship that he hasn't used since his office at the Navy. He makes a point to be careful of the cursive, of the wet ink that's likely to smudge as he slips it across the desk to her.

Her eyes flick to the note before holding his a minute longer.

What can I do for you?

Her lips turn upward in a reassured, determined smile.

"I'd like to talk to you about some art, Admiral."

Tags:

@cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @angstytalesrx @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @genius2050 @ohgodnotagainn @moonchild-cupcake

[persephone11110]

Highway To Heaven

tom kazansky x daughter reader

ofc: Nadia“Gladiator”Kazansky

summary: He watches her fight, now he’s watching her lose against death.

characters: Tom“Iceman”Kazansky, Original Female Characters x2, Sarah Kazansky

TW: medical induced coma, talks of injuries, possible death, hopeful ending

SN: i wrote a shitty reason of health problems

- I completely got carried away but its fine.

- this isn’t proofread at all.

He thinks back to her first basketball game, how she still got back up even after getting a busted lip. Never since the day she was born has Nadia Kazansky given up, not when she came out the womb blue, not even against death. So why now?

He hates how she’s not smiling as she sleeps. Ever since Nadia was a baby there would be a smile plastered on her face as she slept. Now Nadia lips sat straight on her face as she laid medically sedated on her hospital bed.

Ice listened to the heart monitor as it beeped steadily, the only sound he’s listened to for the last four days. He misses her smiles, her laughter, her corny jokes.

He sighed putting his book down, standing up and leaning over her bed rails kissing her forehead. “Honey I need you to wake up”, Tom Kazansky was never a man to beg, but for this he will; for her he always will.

Tears dropped to down his face, guilt clenched his heart. Ice himself had approved of this mission and he’d also picked Nadia for the mission knowing she would be the only person to pull it off.

If there was a way to look into the future, Ice would have never put his daughter in that damn fight jet. He wouldn’t had given the okay for her to fly, if he had known about the fallout.

He feels digusted with himself, those thoughts didn’t belong to him. They belong to a father who’s at risk of losing his only child, a father who’s already grieving for the death of his daughter.

A sob left his mouth as he thought about the possibility of losing his daughter.

He would be left childless, Tom Kazansky would know how it felt to bury a child. Something he doesn’t want to do, a thing he thought he wouldn’t have to go through.

He stares at her pale face, her face lacked it usual tan of life. Nadia would had murdered her father if she had known about a tube being down her throat.

At the thought of food his stomach growled viciously. He wanted to move and grab food. But what if he walked away and this was last time his daughter was alive?

What if this was the last time her chest went up and down, no matter if she had help or not?

“Thomas” a feminine voice pulled him out his horrible thoughts of hell.

Sarah Kazansky his little sister, grabbed her older brother and hugged him. She ran her hands up and down his back, easing his rattling body frame.

He held on to this pain for almost a week. Ice cries for his daughter at thought of her being in pain. He also cries as he knows death is approaching and finally Tom allows his guilt to unravel from his heart.

He didn’t want to be this vulnerable, not now when Nadia is facing against death.

“Here Tom” she said handing him a pb&j sandwich, and a bottle of juice. In return he offered her weak attempt of a smile.

She gives him another hug before leaving him alone in the cafeteria to return to work.

He leaned back in the white plastic chair, uncomfortably adjusting his tall frame in the chair. He twirls the necklace that Nadia gotten for him a long time ago, he feels the slight comfort and hope the necklace gives him.

He on the verge of slumber when a voice erupts his sleep.“Admiral Kazansy”

He hums lowly, his eyes open to see the doctor who had been treating his daughter.

Ice is out of the chair in seconds, hoping the doctor is sparing his already broken heart and giving him good news.

He noticed the grim look the doctor had on her face, the way her eyes had a look of pity and sadness to them.

Bad news.

“How is my daughter?”, he asks her.

“Sir, I think it’s time we discuss a plan” She pauses briefly looking at Ice before continuing.

“What I mean by that Admiral is that, Nadia is suffering from a brain injury called cerebral edema, her entire brain is bruised and swollen from the impact of her crash”.

His mask was instantly replaced with concern and anxiety.

He felt his world starting to crash and burn.

Ice’s eyes started to prickle to with tears as he thought about the death of his only child.

He took a shaky breathe before asking Dr. Foreman his next question“can you fix it?”.

Ice didn’t want the answer to his question. He knew most likely he going to end his week, month or year by burying his daughter Nadia.

“Lets take a seat” Dr. Foreman gently ordered, she gestured to the chair and led her and Ice to them.

He felt it, he knew those words by heart.

It only meant one word was going to appear in the next sentence.

Death.

The hands on the clock ticked as she talked to him describing in great detail for what was best for his Nadia.

His daughter, how dare a she tell him whats best for his kid.

He drowned out the conversation, only hearing the word death.

“Admiral Kazansky, Its in you and Nadia best wishes to let her go peacefully”. She spoke as she held Ice’s hand before letting go.

“Unless, Nadia pulls through” Dr. Foreman said kindly.

“And the chances are?” He asked as his body shooked with anger, sadness, denial.

“Less than 35 percent” she nodded her head sadly, already grasping what Ice meant.

“Admiral, sit on it and think about your next move” she ordered as she walk away from him, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

——

As Ice slept, in his dream he kept hearing erratic beeping as if it was an alarm going off.

Someone yelling pulled him out his short slumber. “she’s coding, she’s coding!”

He was being yanked out the chair by Sarah.

Ice watched from the outside as they tried to revive Nadia back.

He watched the doctors hands go up and down as they tried cpr on her.

He heard the orders being yelled, he heard them upping the charge number on the AED.

You could hear Ice sobs even aganist Sarah’s shoulder. But what you couldn’t hear and see was death as it loomed over his daughter.

“Give me another chance God, please”.