Chapter Text
There's a knock on their shared office door. Ice and Mav can't hear it because they're too busy arguing over Maverick's approach to today's lesson. Slider can't hear it because he's trying to tune them out, so he collides right into Petty Officer Rowe as he tries to slip out of the aforementioned shared office. Whatever stack of papers Rowe has is sent flying.
"Slider, what the fuck," Mav huffs, "You're like ten times Rowe's size. Watch where you're going."
"Maverick, shut up," Ice pinches his brow.
"Sorry, Rowe," Slider sighs.
"It's okay," the poor petty officer squeaks.
Slider drops down to help him pick everything up.
"Knock louder next time," Slider jokes, "This everything?"
Rowe thumbs through everything, mumbling quietly to himself. Mav and Ice have started up again, so nobody can hear what he's saying. He nods and properly enters the room. Rowe divvies the small stack in two and hands Iceman and Maverick each part of it.
"I just need these signed please, lieutenants," he says.
Mav shrugs and starts signing. Ice and Slider both give Maverick a look, which he doesn't notice, then share one between themselves.
"When do you need them back?" Ice asks.
"EOD," Rowe replies, "Just drop them off at Hansen's office."
Ice makes a face; Mav raises an eyebrow at him.
"An admiral you don't like, Ice-man? Never thought I'd see the day," Mav snarks.
"Fuck off, Maverick," Slider rolls his eyes.
"I have nothing against Hansen," Ice insists, "I just don't like his policies."
"I've never had an issue with him," Maverick shrugs. He hands Rowe back his signed papers.
Ice shares an eye roll with Slider. He flips through the paperwork, scribbles his name down, and gives Rowe the stack back.
A few months later.
Maverick checks his duffel again. Khakis, check. Undershirts, check. Underwear, also check. Toothbrush, a whole new tube of toothpaste, a couple of books, the drawing Bradley made for him of what Maverick would look like as a jet (the toddler's approximation of an F-14 in sunglasses). This is probably the seventh time he's checked his pack. Pre-deployment jitters. It's his first official one without Goose.
"Mav, honey!" Carole calls out from downstairs, "Package!"
Mav trudges downstairs. Carole's at the bottom, by the front door, holding a thick fucking envelope.
"What is it?" He asks.
"It's your mail, Petey," she scoffs with a smile, "I'm not opening it."
Mav flips it over in his hands. It's a lot of paper; it has some heft to it. He opens it and skims some of the pages.
"Not for me," he declares.
"It says 'Lieutenant Peter Mitchell' right there," Carole taps the outside of envelope.
"It's a marriage license," Maverick laughs, "I think I'd know if I got married. Probably got sent to me by accident."
"That's a lot of paper for a marriage license."
"This admiral. Henson or Hanson or Hancock. Something like that," Mav shrugs, "He initiated this initiative. Married officers perform better than unmarried, and they offer more benefits if both partners are officers. Probably a couple guys got hitched and one of their names is similar to mine. I'll drop it off before I leave tomorrow."
Maverick drops the file on the kitchen counter. He'll forget to grab it before they rush out in the morning. Then it'll get covered in more mail and some of Carole's textbooks. Before Maverick gets back, it's completely forgotten.
Meanwhile.
"Are you fucking kidding me," Ice spits, staring at the top sheet in a thick stack of paperwork.
He had also received an envelope. Ice, however, takes the time to read it. Slider's howling with laughter. Ice smacks his chest with the stack of paper; Slider makes an attempt to grab the papers. He knocks it out of Ice's hands, scattering them on the floor.
"Don't fucking laugh," Ice snarls.
"I thought you read everything you sign?" Slider chuckles.
He crouches down to pick up one of the sheets. Right there on the front, under swirly script that says "certificate of marriage," under the embossed Navy seal on the top of the page, and under Admiral Patrick Hansen's signature, is Ice's signature. Across from it, is Maverick's signature. There's a date there as well. The license was filed a few months ago. Leave it to Navy bureaucracy to take months to deliver a marriage license. The rest of the paperwork outlines the directive: pairing up naval officers, based on the Navy's elite matchmaking services ("A bored admiral's wife probably," Ice scoffs), to achieve the best possible career performances. There's a packet of information and resources for living, and possibly becoming intimate, with a squadmate (that packet is immediately disposed of).
The worst part, in Slider's opinion, are the relocation orders. Iceman and Maverick are being sent from Miramar to Oceana, where housing has been set up for the happy couple. Maverick's currently deployed, so Ice and Slider have to move everything across the country.
"I hate Virginia," Ice groans, rubbing his face.
"Yeah, I know," Slider nods.
Kazansky Sr. is a Congressman. Washington DC isn't exactly close to Virginia Beach, but it's not exactly far either. And with a private jet at his father's fingertips, Ice is sure he'll be expected to come around more often.
"You think he knows about the Hansen Initiative?" Slider wonders.
"Yes," Ice grumbles, "Mom called when it was going through to tell me how he was enthusiastically for it." Ice clears his throat and pitches his voice up in an impressive imitation of his mother, "'Tom, it's such a great idea. Not only will it improve your career, you won't have to worry about finding a partner.'"
"They both know the bulk of the partnerships have been with other officers or enlisted personnel, right?" Slider chuckles.
It's easier and more efficient, according to the Navy and the professionals they hired to tell people this, to partner the men up with each other. The Navy already controls most of their lives. Why not personal, possibly romantic, relationships as well? There was a call for volunteers to sign up to possibly be married off to Navy personnel, but Hansen tested his initiative with the Marine Corps first. The jarheads drained the volunteer pool. The results were aggressively positive, so the Navy moved on to… themselves and their own personnel.
"At least I won't be alone," Ice sighs.
He drops the paperwork on the coffee table and flops down on the couch. He looks absolutely miserable. Slider sits next to him and flings an arm around Ice's shoulders.
"Well, you'll never be alone for the next five years," Slider points out, "You'll always have your husband, Maverick."
"Fuck off," Ice huffs, but there's no venom in his tone.
Slider already got his orders in the mail last week. They, correctly, assumed Ice's would be along later. Navy bureaucracy takes its time.
The phone rings. Tiny hands grab the receiver and Bradley presses the hard plastic to his face.
"Hi," he mumbles, "Bradshaw and Maverick house. Who um who is this?"
Bradley sets the phone down and lets out a blood curdling scream for Carole. Frantically, she bursts from the bathroom. Her hair is half straightened; she's still holding her pink Conair flat iron. Carole tosses it in the bathroom sink and dashes to her son.
"Baby, what's wrong?" She asks.
Bradley offers her the phone without a word.
"Jesus Christ, kid. You're gonna give me a heart attack," Carole chastises him. She puts the phone to her ear, "Y'ello?"
She pauses, letting the voice on the other end talk. She shifts her weight, side to side, with a small frown on her face. Slowly, Carole's lips tick up in a smile; she tips her head back and lets out a howling cackle.