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Cold winds raced through the streets of some nowhere town in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. Snow piled on the streets, dusting everything with a cool, wintry glow. Pete pulled his thin coat tighter around his shoulders, wishing he had the sense to at least grab his bomber jacket before he'd gotten thrown out in the cold.
None of the regular late December noises sung through the streets, the biting cold driving everyone inside to their warm fires and loving families. Still, Pete wandered the streets persistently, desperate to avoid going back to the base. Striker and Nines were still out to get him, and if they caught even a glimpse of him they would kill him.
All he has on him is the clothes on his back, today's newspaper, and a box of matches in his pocket.
The cold latches its icy fingers to his skin, threatening to freeze him to death before dawn. Pete shivers, glancing around for some sort of shelter from the wind and snow.
He's not quite sure whereabouts he is anymore, any buildings he may have recognised from his short stay in this town long gone. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
He sighs and shakes the thought from his head, desperately wishing for a cigarette.
Something clangs loudly up ahead, startling him out of his mind. Glowing eyes glare at him from the darkness when he looks to see what it was, blinking at him once or twice before the critter they belong to scampers away.
Pete sighs again, rubbing his arms in an attempt to stave off the ice cold air that coils around him, jeering at him with whispered sounds. He's pretty sure his lips have turned blue by now, and his bare fingers have turned stiff with cold.
His teeth chattered achingly, his ever wandering mind drifting off to happier times.
-
Goose laughed softly at Mav's soggy, dripping form. ‘Little bit late to be out n' about, isn't it Petey? C'mon inside, you'll catch a cold if you stay out there much longer, honey.’
Mav scowled at him, his wet hair making him look less intimidating and more like a wet kitten. Goose simply let out another chuckle, stepping aside to allow Mav through the door.
‘Stay here, I'll go fetch ya some dry clothes. Dinner's in the fridge I think, Carole made lamb roast if you want some.’ Goose disappeared through a doorway, and Mav sat down at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers on the wooden surface in no particular rhythm.
A few minutes later, Carole and Goose walk back into the room, Goose handing him some dry clothes and Carole kissing the top of his head gently before heading into the kitchen. Goose ushered him into the bathroom, offering him a warm shower.
When Mav finally walked back into the living room, clean, dry, and wearing some of Goose's spare clothes, there was a steaming plate of food waiting for him on the table. He dug in hungrily, Goose and Carole watching him fondly.
-
Pete smiles fondly at the memory, Goose's voice still sounding in his head.
After another hour or so of wandering the streets, Pete thinks his fingers might have started to turn black. He really hopes they haven't, as he's pretty sure there's no recovering from that. He dearly wishes he'd just stayed at the base, he would take any amount of punches and fresh bruises to escape the cold.
A building to his left caught his attention, the warm, welcoming light gleaming within beckoning him. A sign above its door claimed it was a bar, the faint clinking of glass echoing from inside.
Pushing open the wooden door, a gust of warm air enveloped him as he sidled inside. Laughter and shouting reached his weary ears, his exhaustion preventing him from joining in on the conversations.
If tonight was a normal night, he might have bought a couple drinks, flirted with a pretty lady (or guy. Pete wasn't picky.) and goofed around with the Flyboys. But tonight wasn't a normal night, and so Pete just stood there, soaking in the warmth. Weariness settled upon him like an old jacket, the tiredness seeping into his very bones.
He reached his numb fingers into his jean pockets, searching for a few spare coins for a drink. As his hands came up empty, he simply slouched against the wall and rubbed his hands together.
Soon enough, a few people caught on that he wasn't buying anything and ushered him back outside.
Alone in the snow again, he found a spot where two buildings didn't quite line up, forming a meagre shelter from the wind. He sat down, pulling his legs up to his chest only to feel his matchbox.
An idea struck him- not a very good one, but when were his ideas ever good?- and he pulled out the box of matches, proceeding to strike one against the brick wall behind him.
All of a sudden, he was in the Hard Deck with Tom, Nick, and Ron, laughing about something while nursing a beer each. Nick elbowed him in the ribs, grinning, and opened his mouth as if to ask a question.
“Hey Mav, didn't ya-”
The match burnt out, half of it breaking off and falling to the snow, a stark contrast of burnt charcoal against the pure white of the snow. The bar disappeared, the snow taking its place.
Pete shivered, taking out another match and striking it against the wall.
This time he was speeding down the motorway on his bike, Tom riding pillion behind him. His lean, muscled arms snaked around Mav's waist, his head resting on Mav's shoulder. The wind tousled Tom's hair, whipping the usual picture perfect blond strands into a frenzy. Mav's hair wasn't faring much better, and matching grins adorned both their faces.
The flame sputtered out once again, Tom, the warmth, and the fleeting sense of joy disintegrating with it. Pete fumbled the matchbox open with numb fingers, fishing out another match and striking it against the wall.
Goose appeared before him, extending a hand to help him up. A warm smile graced Goose's lips, and the cold disappeared from Pete's body. Goose pulled him in for a hug, the warm embrace welcoming Pete home.
Goose began to walk down the road beckoning Pete to follow him.
And then, the match went out.
Groaning in frustration, Pete took all the matches left in the box and struck them all at once.
Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell did not seem to mind much when the matches went out that time. His jaw had finally stopped chattering, his hands were no longer numb. He simply lay there, stiff as a board, unaware of the snow piling around him, the wind coating him in a layer of fresh snow.
Goose appeared in front of him once again, as did Carole. They pulled him up, off the cold, wet, snowy ground. A familiar doorway appeared in front of them, many warm memories encased within the house it belonged to.
Pete took the first step into Goose and Carole's house he had in years, since the place burnt down a long time ago.
Carole placed a kiss on his cheek before disappearing down the hall, and Goose held his hand softly as they walked into the living room.
A fire roared in the hearth, red and gold flames licking the edges of the box they were contained in, itching to escape.
None of the three people in the house seemed to care about the mess of ashes, snow, and half burnt matches they'd left behind. Nor did they seem to care about the small, beaten up body, frostbitten halfway to hell, still clutching at the small, empty matchbox.