Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

While aboard the carrier, Maverick receives official notice that he's being sent to NAS Oceana. After he docks back home, he'll be flying out (on a commercial flight of all things) almost immediately. The notice claims his things back in Miramar should already be at Oceana by the time he gets there.

"That's fucking weird," he says, rereading the letter with a frown.

The notice came from the office of Adm. Patrick Hensen. His flight has already been booked; an American Airlines flight from San Diego to Norfolk. Transportation to the airport is provided by the Navy, apparently.

Maverick chews his lip. He's never interacted with Hensen before, so he's not entirely sure how he royally fucked up enough to be sent across the entire fucking country without having to pack a single thing. Did Hensen send guys to bother Carole? She probably told them off, which doesn't really help his case. He wonders if Viper knows or could get him out of this latest mess.

"What?" Merlin asks, not looking up from his breakfast. His tray is mostly empty; he's moved on to Maverick's while the pilot studies the paper in his hands.

"I'm getting relocated before I even get back," Mav sighs. He picks at his eggs. Merlin already stole his bacon.

"Didn't Carole and her kid just move to San Diego too?"

"Yeah," Maverick groans, "She's gonna be so mad at me."

"Who's mad at you now?" Wolfman asks, dropping his tray next to Maverick.

"Oh, Hensen's office of marital affairs," Hollywood whistles, reading over Maverick's shoulder, "That's rough. Who did the good Mrs. Hensen pair you with?"

"What? No, these are just relocation orders," Maverick points out and shakes his head. Mostly in disbelief because he's sure he would have known if he got married.

"Yeah, because you should already have your marriage license," Wolf explains, "They send the license then a few months later relocate you and your spouse."

"I never got that part," Merlin hums, thoughtful, "Why relocate you after you're married?"

"They'll only do it with officers who marry other officers," Hollywood points out, "Two career guys aren't gonna have a whole family to uproot."

"Well, Mav has the Bradshaws," Merlin offers.

"Should have just married Carole," Wolf says, patting Mav's shoulder, "Could have avoided this whole mess."

Maverick lets out a weak chuckle, "What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You married your friend?" Annabelle Kazansky asks with a slight frown in her voice.

Ice is on the phone with his mom. He can't actually see her face, but he knows she's frowning.

"The big, tall one?" She continues, leaving out handsome in her description of Slider.

"No, Mom. I didn't marry Ron," Ice explains with a sigh, "I married a guy from TOPGUN."

Slider, an absolute bastard with incredible hearing, pokes his head into the kitchen, where Ice and the phone are.

"Did your mom call me handsome again?" He asks with a grin.

Ice rolls his eyes and turns around, attempting to ignore his backseater. He continues to explain to Annabelle, in broad strokes, his strenuous friendship with Maverick. Very broad strokes. Ice leaves out the part where he could have died and the part where Goose did die.

"He sounds very nice, honey," Annabelle says, "You said he's deployed? Make sure you bring him 'round when he's home."

"I will suggest it," Ice informs her. "I've gotta go, Mom."

"Oh, but do you and — What's his name again, honey?"

"Maverick."

Ice makes the mistake of looking over to Slider. He's grinning like a loon. It's been oddly helpful, not that Iceman will admit it, having Slider in such a good mood during their relocation. Sure, the RIO pokes fun at Ice's marriage every chance he gets. But it gives Ice a direction for his anger. He could petition and contest the marriage, but that's more paperwork and more trouble than it's worth. It's only for five years anyway. If Maverick wants to annul it, fine. They can have that discussion when he gets back.

"… Maverick," Annabelle repeats cautiously.

"Pete," Ice adds, "His Christian name is Pete." He squeezes the receiver; the plastic cracks a little.

"Oh, and Maverick is his Navy name."

"Yeah, callsign, but yes."

"Okay, Tom. Don't be a stranger! You and Ron should come over for dinner sometime," Annabelle suggests. Her tone implies it's more than a suggestion.

"Hi, Annabelle!" Slider shouts from his position against the wall.

Ice aggressively waves him away.

"Oh, is he over? Tell Ron I said hello!"

"I will Mom, promise. I gotta go. I love you." Ice tries not to snap at his mom as she continues her goodbyes. As soon as he hangs up, he rounds on Slider. "Don't you have your own house?"

"Yeah, but I don't have a roommate anymore. I get lonely these days," Slider sighs dramatically, "Ever since Maverick stole you away."

"Fuck off," Ice huffs with an eyeroll. He glances at the clock above the kitchen sink and again at his watch. "I guess I should go get him. His flight is supposed to get in soon."

"Yeah," Slider shrugs, "That's why I came over. Unless you wanna go by yourself."

"You can drive."

Maverick did board his flight in San Diego. Mostly because he's concerned they'll mark him as AWOL if he didn't. He didn't have time to see Carole and Bradley when the carrier docked. Mav's decided once he gets wherever he's supposed to be, he'll call them. A letter, Maverick assumes, wouldn't quite explain why he's in Virginia.

"Yo, Mav!" Someone beckons loudly.

Slider. Maverick exhales a sigh of relief once he spots Iceman and Slider. There's no reason, that he can think of, why all three of them would be in Virginia except they've all been relocated. Maybe Mav didn't fuck up; maybe they're all there for a reason. Both of those things are true. Maverick didn't fuck up and they're all there for a reason. It just hasn't clicked yet.

"Guys, you won't believe the shit Wolf, Wood, and Merlin were saying," Mav says in lieu of a proper greeting.

"What are those idiots talking about these days?" Slider asks.

He grabs Maverick's bag and slings an arm over the pilot's shoulder. Ice doesn't say anything. He silently leads the other two out of the airport to the car.

"That I got fucking married and that's why I got transfered," Maverick laughs. He's relieved. Well and truly relieved. For now. "I got this notice from Hensen's office with my relocation orders. They packed all my shit and bought me a fucking cross country plane ticket. I'm glad you guys are here at least."

"Huh," Slider clicks his tongue with a smile, "Wild, Mav."

"Seriously?" Ice asks, exasperated. He stops dead in his tracks. Slider and Maverick bump into him with a grunt. "You can't be fucking illiterate. Are you just too stupid to comprehend?"

"Ice, what the fuck," Mav squawks.

"I'm going to the car," Slider decides. He carries on, leaving the unhappy couple behind.

"We got married, dumbass," Ice snaps.

"I think I would know if we got married," Maverick scoffs, "You're not so easily forgettable, Iceman. I would have remembered marrying you."

Ice sputters and finally stops talking. He stares at Mav; Maverick stares back.

"The marriage license," Maverick says finally. He slumps slightly. "I got one before I shipped out and thought it was for someone else."

Ice nods, "Yeah, that's what Bradshaw told Slider."

"Carole knows? Well, fuck that's a relief. Is she mad at me?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Ice rolls his eyes. "Just call her when we get home."

"Oh, are we living together?" Maverick asks.

Ice blinks at him in disbelief. He whips around in a sharp about-face and stalks off toward the car. Maverick repeats himself loudly as he follows behind.

"Yes, Maverick!" Ice answers, "We're living together because we're married."

"Well, I hope you got two blankets because I'm a blanket hog!"

Ice sighs, slumping his shoulders for a second before he straights back up, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We have our own rooms."

"Oh, well. That's perfect then!"

"What's perfect?" Slider shouts from the car.

Curse him and his perfect hearing. Ice hides his grimace. Well, he tries to anyway. Slider is a professional Iceman reader.

Ice smooths his face into something as neutral as possible before snapping back, "Not your driving."

"I can drive," Maverick offers.

Ice is about to accept because he really doesn't want to drive, but Slider interjects with a bigger bomb than their marriage.

"You don't have a license, Maverick," Slider snorts, jingling the keys, "Carole warned me about you."

Ice scowls at his new husband.

"Fine," Maverick scoffs, "Shotgun!"

Ignoring the dibs and complaints, Ice gets in the passenger seat of his own car. Slider offers an "eh what can you do" shrug as way of apology to Mav before tossing the pilot's bag in the back and getting in the car himself.

Cohabitation with Maverick, much to Iceman's surprise, is easy. It could have been the near death experience they experienced in the air together, but Ice can't really find many faults in having Mav as a roommate. Faults in Maverick himself? Yes. Faults in the way he teaches? Yes. But they aren't teaching at NAS Oceana. They aren't even in the same squadron; they can't be, per the Hansen Marriage Initiative art. III § 4 cl. 2. Married officers can operate out of the same base, but they cannot be in the same unit, force, squadron, detachment, company, brigade, and/or battalion.

Ice read the entire thing three times before Maverick even was stateside. He was looking, desperately, for a way out. The only way is an annulment. But, of course, the Navy doesn't make that so simple. The officer marriages are set up to last five years. They aren't allowed to get a good and proper divorce, but married officers are allowed to petition for an annulment, rendering the marriage void like it had never happened. It involves a lot of paperwork for both parties and their chain of command, and it might not even get approved.

"Doesn't sound like it's worth the trouble," Maverick huffs after Ice explains it to him one night. He's tossing popcorn in the air, trying to catch a piece in his mouth and failing miserably. There's a small collection of popcorn in his lap and on the couch. "It's only five years."

"The fact that we can't be in the same squadron is why we got transfer out of TOPGUN," Ice points out. He grabs a handful of the popcorn from Mav's lap. It earns him a quick side-eye as his hand nears Maverick's crotch, but neither of them acknowledge it. What's a few crotch popcorns between friends?

"Well, in five years, we can tell Hancock it didn't work."

"Hanson," Ice corrects, "The benefits kinda out-weigh the inconvenience."

"I'm sorry being married to be is so awful," Maverick says with a mouthful of popcorn.

"Higher pay, better postings —"

"I wouldn't consider Virginia Beach better, Ice."

"Not immediately, but it says here…" Ice flips through the initiative, "Benefits. Article eight, section 3, clause 3: After one (1) year, married officers can request a base transfer. Married officers will have priority in their upcoming transfer, provided there is enough space at the selected base."

Mav hums thoughtfully, "So in a year we can go back?"

"I mean, we both can't teach, but yeah."

"That's not so bad. I think we can handle that."

"Trick or treat!" Hollywood, Wolfman, and Slider sing as soon as the door opens.

Ice, scowling, slams it shut immediately. Undeterred, Slider flings open the door and the three men barge in.

"Don't any of you have anything better to do?" Ice complains.

"No," they all reply.

"Besides, you said you'd come with us," Slider reminds him.

"If I don't have to dress up," Ice adds hastily.

He eyes his friends. They're dressed for whatever movie they're all going to see. Slider has a robe on, but Ice knows there isn't much on underneath. Clearly, Slider doesn't have a shirt on; Ice can see his bare chest. But Ice, begrudgingly, had joined Slider on his hunt for the right gold hot pants. Which, apparently, they make in Slider's size. Hollywood and Wolf at least have pants on. Wolf is in pajamas; a whole set with the matching shirt and bottoms. And besides the fake, gaping head wound, Hollywood looks halfway normal in jeans, t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

"Your husband dressed up," Wolf unhelpfully points out while literally pointing at Maverick.

"Ice, are you not dressing up?" Mav asks as he joined everyone by the front door.

Maverick's in green surgical scrubs. Ice is painfully aware there is a sequined red corset, black silk underwear, stockings, and garter belt underneath. Earlier, he awkwardly helped Maverick lace the corset up. Immediately after, he stalked off to take a cold shower. Carole, helpfully, obtained all these things in Mav's size for whatever he was supposed to be and mailed it all over. She had sent a bunch of makeup, a diagram, and instructions on how to apply it all. But neither of them had a single idea on where to begin with the makeup, so Maverick didn't bother with it.

"Did Carole send the —?" Wolf begins, gesturing vaguely to his head.

"Oh! Yeah, yeah." Mav ducks into the living room and returns with a Mickey Mouse Club hat. It's Bradley's; Carole had sent that too. "Careful with it though. Brad's gonna want it back."

"I will protect it with my life," Wolf promises solemnly.

"You're seriously not dressing up, Ice?"

"He's allergic to costumes," Slider jokes.

"And fun," Hollywood contributes.

"Deathly allergic," Ice deadpans. "What are we doing anyway?"

The four of them, not including Iceman, win the group costume contest at the show, narrowly beating out another foursome dressed as the teen sleuths from Scooby-Doo Where are You. It was nearly a tie until Slider hefts Maverick up and over his head, like an overhead press. Undeterred, the man dressed as Daphne tries with the man dressed as Fred. The two crumple into a heap. Slider gets in a few reps while the crowd cheers . Ice, bright red, tries to sink into his seat, but he can't escape. The prize is two drink chips, each, for the bar across the street.

Without further ado, once everyone is in their seats, the film begin. And much to Ice's continued horror, there is yelling, jeering, and cheering at the screen. The crowd sings along to the songs, shout jokes, and apparently have props. Rice rains down upon them from the back row (fuck the back row). A recurring gag is screaming "asshole" anytime the guy with glasses is on the screen or "slut" when it's the wife.

"C'mon, c'mon," Mav hisses, hauling Ice up with the rest of everyone else.

"What? Maverick, stop," Ice whispers back.

"You gotta do the dance."

"I don't know anything about this movie! How would I know —"

"It's just a jump to the left," Blofeld, or rather the actor who played Blofled in Diamonds are Forever, announces on the screen.

The entire theater erupts with the next step, "And then a step to the right!"

Nobody was sure how they got home; everyone is drunk off their asses. Slider is missing a shoe, Bradley's hat makes it home safely, Hollywood has a black eye, and Maverick added a feather boa to his ensemble at some point. Ice and Mav deposit Slider, face first, on their couch. Wolfman and Hollywood disappear almost immediately. The remaining two aviators abscond to their kitchen, sipping from a bottle of cheap whiskey.

"D'you have fun?" Mav asks, taking a swig and passing the bottle back.

His surgical scrubs had disappeared halfway through the film. Ice tries not to leer, but he's too drunk to realize he's not being subtle. At least Maverick is too drunk to notice too. The corset is loose and had slipped down throughout the night, revealing Maverick's nipples. One of the stockings is slouched down to the top of his, stupid, cowboy boot. It looks like the garter had snapped (it did. It was pretty cheap, so when someone at the bar snapped it, which resulted in Slider throwing his shoe at the guy, against Maverick's leg it… Snapped apart.). Ice can only nod in response. Mav prods him with the bottle, signaling Ice to take it. Their fingers graze.

"Wasn't so bad," Ice mumbles.

"Keep it. I'm gonna get to bed," Mav insists.

He slips the boa down his shoulders and waggles an end in Ice's face. Mav stumbles a few steps before righting himself against the wall. Ice hastily sets the whiskey on the counter; it topples over without either of them noticing.

"Help," Ice slurs, "Need help? I laced you up."

"It's basically taken itself off," Maverick points out.

"S'a great costume that removes itself. Lemme help."

Maverick turns around; Ice is right there, looming in his space. He flings the boa around the other man's neck and pulls him down to his face.

"I think maybe I got some lipstick you can help me take off," Mav murmurs.

Neither of them are sober enough to remember Maverick didn't use any of the makeup for his costume. Their faces mash together. The kiss is intense, but it's mostly teeth and whiskey flavored spit at the end. Tongues prod and explore; Ice's hands roam along the sequined fabric, the smooth fabric, and Mav's soft skin.

"M'room's closer," Maverick whispers.

Ice grunts in response. They stagger a few steps further down the hall to Maverick's bedroom door. Blindly, Mav paws at the knob. Not even a step into his room and they freeze, abruptly, as a loud snore can be heard from the direction of the bed. Ice looks up. Wolf's sprawled out in the middle of Maverick's bed with Hollywood's head on his stomach.

"Your room's occupied," Ice chuckles softly.

Maverick quietly snorts, with a grin, "I guess fucking so."

"C'mon," Ice purrs. "My room."

He hooks a finger into the band of Maverick's soft underwear and drags him along.

"You're covered in feathers," Slider remarks in the morning.

Ice blinks and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He is covered in feathers from that cheap boa Mav found last night.

"Huh," Ice clicks his tongue, "Weird."

"Made coffee," Slider says.

"Thanks."

"Have fun last night?"

"Which part?"

Slider, ambivalent, shrugs.

"Might have a room open," Ice comments, sipping his coffee.

Slider raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Marriage going that well?"

"Seems like it."

"S'good for your career."

"Maybe not my blood pressure.

"Neither is your career."

"Touche," Ice hums.